A Million Dreams
by AliceHeart247
Summary: Erik’s dreams have never turned out in his favour until Christine. While questioning his life choices, his angel returns to save him. The question is wheter or not he will allow her to and give him the dreams he thought to be long forgotten.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I remember that I used to dream as a child. Locked away in the dark recesses of my mother's home, trapped away from the world of regular men, I would sit alone and dream of what it would be like to walk among them. I would come up with worlds beyond my own prison, make up friends to join me on adventures or simply journey out by myself. I would see incredible sights and achieve impossible feats inside my mind. I would design palaces to visit and live in, I would battle monsters, or I would even sometimes find a lovely home to call my own with a family who would not sneer or hit me when I showed my face. I would dream of a mother who would smile at me and tell me she loved me every day. Each night a father would tuck me into bed, telling me stories or simply sit there, rubbing my chest until I fell asleep. I would imagine the fantastical or what I thought should be normal.

Every time I woke up, however, I was faced with the Hell of my reality. All of my dreams would melt away, leaving me with nothing but the empty feeling of disappointment and pain. I would still start afresh, making up even grander settings for my mind so that I would not have to focus on how limited my body was.

My body was not so much the limitation as my face was. Wearing my mask for fear of a beating from my mother, I was trapped in two cells. One of the house I lived in, and the other of the cover that hid my ugliness. I would cry or smile or frown behind the mask, but to the outside world it was all the same. I had no feelings or emotions or thoughts of my own. They were all taken by the mask. So I learned to hide them on purpose. I used the covering to my advantage. I would seem as though I was listening when my mother would preach to me, but instead I was in my head, envisioning that caring home somewhere off far away from her. She never caught on, though sometimes I think she knew I was not listening as attentively as she wanted. Still, she did not care enough for me to press it.

As I grew, my dreams became more wild and desperate to be lived out. I longed for the outside world more than the one I was in and began to wonder why I had to stay inside. I knew why my mother wanted me to, but I questioned what truly kept me from disobeying her.

It was a thrill the first time I left the house and ventured into the town. I did not go very far before a noise sent me instantly scurrying back. I could not be caught out, this I knew, but the call became too loud to ignore. There was so much promise beyond the walls of my house.

When my mother became less and less encouraging for me to continue living, I decided it was time I took matters into my own hands. I left the house I was born into and crept out in the cover of night to escape the town I had never been bold enough to explore fully. I thought myself an adventurous rogue about to live his dreams. I thought everything was so thrilling, just as I had imagined. My fault came, however, when I realised I had taken for granted my freedom in the house of being able to wake up from my dream and find myself safe. I could leave my dreams at any time and find myself with shelter. Out on my own, I did not have that luxury. I had no food or shelter or water. I had to scavenge to find anything to sustain me. It is a wonder I did not die.

My hopes were already starting to tarnish when I came across a travelling circus. I was wary of it—knowing that other people were not kind to me—, but I made a mistake and had my secret revealed.

In those awful years of captivity and exposure, I realised that all my imaginings were for naught. I had been a foolish child, dreaming of a world that did not exist. Every aspiration I had entertained was crushed under the boot of my capture and whipped out of me. My hopes fled with my screams of pain into the night. Each scar on my back was a wish that had been taken from me. My innocence was punished in the harshest way and my naivety was quashed. The iron bars of my cage became the prison around my mind. I could not imagine, I could not hope or yearn. I was trapped and felt I would be forever more.

When at last I did manage to escape, I felt something in me break. I had a choice when I made my eventual release a reality. I had to choose between my freedom or my captor's life. When I felt the breath leave his fat body at my hands, I knew the last of my childhood went with it. He had stolen it, but I had let it go forever. I could not go back. Any wild vision I had of retuning to my mother vanished. I could not go back for I was no longer the child who had left her. I knew also that I would only be trading one prison for another. The torture would not end but simply shift to new hands.

I fled the place where most children's fantasies are made a reality. Dreams can be born in a circus for those on the outside, but inside it they are killed.

I wandered for years, searching for I knew not what. My apathy and indifference to the world only grew as I journeyed. I picked up trades and became very good at sleight of hand. I would trick people out of their money. Much like the circus, I used flashy showmanship to create the illusion of wonder. There was nothing wonderful or magical about picking pockets except the fact that it allowed me to continue eating. I did not subsist on much, but I had human needs as anyone else. I lived, though my face may tell a different tale.

Life seemed to drag on in this way, going from place to place, doing the same tricks day in and day out to the open mouthed delight of the idiots I entertained. They were well paying idiots, but they were easily impressed. A few times I ran into some trouble, but I had learnt how to escape such trivial matters long ago. A few clever words, or a quick dash into the shadows and I was out free once more. No cell could hold me and no man would ever again call me their master, this I made sure of.

Through all of this, I completely forgot about my dreams. I had known them to be gone, never coming back as they had no home to come back to. My mind was a trap for innocence; ruining it and twisting it into something vile. My jokes became darker and without true humour, my tricks meaner, and my very being became one of shadows. I felt more at home in the night than in the day, preferring to hide and pounce from unseen corners. Where once my mind had yearned for light, I inhabited only darkness.

I began to realise through all of this that I did still imagine and hope. I did long for things beyond my reality, but now I had the means to make them true. I also realised that my dreams were quite far from my visions in my youth. The darkness I craved and adored had invaded my mind and tainted each aspiration.

The amazing thing about these dreams was that I was not alone in them. For so long, I had been imagining worlds beyond reality without the merest idea that someone else would like to know of them, but now, there were people who not only wanted them but hungered for them. I made my dreams a reality. I made things to scare and hurt and torture as I had been tortured. I made mazes of never ending darkness with traps to keep the victim running until they inevitably fell to their own weakness. I made shadows that would move and trick, the sufferer never knowing when they would strike until they had already been hit. I made so many machines and evils that I forgot all about the fluffy clouds and gentle hands to hold me up to the light. I put aside what I thought to be the wonders of a childish mind not yet made to see the world as it was. They were pure foolishness.

Then I met a child. I met a child so full of light and beauty that it brought me to tears. The crime that the world had put on this child, however, was that he would not live long enough to make his dreams come true. In some ways, the world had done him a favour in not letting him live long enough to suffer the painful break that came from seeing the world as it truly was. He would die still naïve; still believing the best in a world that did not deserve it. He would die pure and I would have to watch.

Through the child, I remembered and relived my old, forgotten dreams. I realised that what I had been seeing now were not dreams but nightmares. I had fallen into a world of corruption. I had lowered myself to the standards of those I despised. They had robbed me of the innocence I now strove to protect in this boy. With me as his guardian, I swore that his illusion would never be broken as mine had been. I would defend his dreams until his dying breath. This breath came softly and sweetly and far too soon.

I remembered the things the boy had envisioned and sought to make them a reality, but once more I was lost. I had not the drive or endurance to keep this dream going. I could not do it. I had tried for my own and look where it had gotten me. I began to feel that I was doomed to fail. If I could not see my own imaginings to fruition, how could I possibly do any better for someone else's?

But then, just when I was dropping back into the shadows of my now tainted soul, fate supplied me with another light. She was more than anything I had hoped for when I was as a child. Where my youthful mind had envisioned two loving arms to hold me and nurture me, there now came one who needed the same for herself. Where once I had hoped to hold a hand as we walked in a sun, there now was one reaching out to me. Where once I was a child longing for a parent, there now was a girl, barely more than a child, longing for me to protect her. Our roles were swapped from what I had originally hoped, but I could not bring myself to complain. She was everything I had been, and just like the boy who had inspired me to hope, I tried to protect her innocence as well.

It started off the same, being a guardian and defender from the darkness of the world so she would not be corrupted. I would be there for her as a father might, to look after her and comfort her in times of need. I would provide for her and nurture her. I would do everything in my power to make her smile. I wanted nothing more than for her to be happy.

But, as all things do, something changed. Something happened and I started to notice how beautiful she looked. I started to notice how her form had become less childlike and her eyes sparkled when she laughed. I started to see her less as a student and more as a glorious woman. I began to realise she had been inspiring me in a way that none ever had before. I saw the way her presence in my life had changed my tastes, how I now took her thoughts and desires into consideration when making decisions for myself. I felt something strange come over me when she would smile upon hearing my voice. I felt a stirring in my gut whenever she would call for me, false though her monicker for me may have been.

The strangest thing of all to change were my dreams. Though I certainly still fell into the pit of nightmares often enough, I now dreamt of things I had not thought possible since my woe-filled youth. I dreamt of walks in the sunlight, now not with some blurred version of what I imagined a loving parent to be, but with her. I imagined her on my arm, chatting in that pretty way of hers as we walked as any other couple would. I envisioned a house for us to live in, just us two, in the country. It would have a garden of beautiful flowers and bright colours. I dreamt of a life so different from my own because she was there.

I realised, much to my own pain and shock, that I was in love. It was no longer the love of a teacher for a pupil, nor a father for a daughter, but of a man for a woman. It was the love that I had seen many times in other people but never once imagined coming for myself. I had long viewed it as an affliction or disease to which I was mercifully immune. Now, I realised, I was sick with it. I was cursed with it. I was in love with Christine Daaé.

Now, I had many hopes for this discovery. I had new dreams that seemed more and more real. I thought, foolishly, that this could possibly work between us. I began to ask her questions, subtly at first, of how she felt about me. I wanted to know if she thought of me in the same way. It turned out, much to my fear and excitement, that she did care about me deeply. She, however, was still hiding behind the veil I had placed over her in thinking me an Angel. She believed that I was naught but a spiritual being sent from Heaven to guide her. She felt I could do no wrong. She believed that I would never have feelings for her beyond what I had long assumed were the only ones possible. She would be devastated to know that not only had I lied about who and what I was, but that I was far from the innocent and pure creature she had long confided in. Though I dreaded it, I knew she needed to see the truth that I had kept from her for so long. I decided to break the promise I had made to myself to protect her from the evils of the world. I was about to reveal the most frightening one yet: me.

The night she removed my mask, she unleashed the horrors I had worked so hard to conceal behind the mirror and my persona. She truly was like Pandora, unable to resist temptation and paying the awful price for her curiosity. The worst part of it, however, was that I knew I should not have blamed her. In my heart of hearts I understood why she did it. I knew it was something she would want to investigate and unveil, but still that did not prepare or stop me from reacting in the way that I did. I screamed and raged and clawed her poor hands down my hideous face. I made her cry and turn away from me. I broke everything I had worked so hard to build between us. In one fell swoop, I sent all of my pretty fantasies crashing down to rubble. I turned from the light to the comforting arms of darkness, broken beyond repair and yearning for the simplicity that came from giving in to the nightmares. Why fight what you cannot beat?

I still remember her tear stained face, looking up at me with fear and loss in her eyes. She had the expression of betrayal I knew to be in my own gaze. I had broken not only my dreams, but hers as well. Realising I had hurt her and not simply myself cut far deeper than any of the Shah's blades.

I tried to apologise, but how can one apologise for existing. After all my years of life, one would think I would be adept at that, but no. I crawled on hands and knees, trying to make her understand how sorry I was for breathing. I tried to make her see that I wanted me dead, too. She was not alone in her hatred of me. Yet all of this too was wrong. It was not what she wanted. In my haze of desperation, I forgot something very important about her: her grace. She has the power to forgive and show compassion to even the lowest creatures. She had the power to make an ant feel important. I was lower than dirt and yet she took my hands and lifted me to my feet. Though she cried and cringed from looking at the cuts I had made in my flesh with her fingers, she raised me up to the height of a man. She returned me to the form I had been struggling to be worthy of all my life. In that moment, I was human. In that moment, I loved her more than anything in the world. All of the love I had nurtured for her became nothing compared with what I felt in that singular instant of her hands in mine.

I always knew I did not deserve her, but I still wanted her. I knew then that I would never deserve her and could not live without her.

I hate to recall what happened after. Oh, there were a few times when we were happy or at least friendly with each other, but nothing could bridge the gap I had formed between us. She tried, angel that she is, but it could not be done. Even if, in her infinite kindness, she had forgiven me, I refused to forgive myself. I could not let go of how I had hurt her and frightened her and harmed my only chance at happiness. Where her smiles should have brought me purest joy, they were tainted in my guilt over what I had ruined. I could not let it go, though. I could not let her go. I needed her, and knew it fully now. Whenever she would come visit her poor, unhappy Erik, I would feel guilty for keeping her from the sunlight at the same time as I was rejoicing her return to me. Surely, if she did not care for me at all, she would not come back down. Some part of me must not have repelled her. But how could I not? It was out of pity that she returned, not out of affection I so longed to receive. I was a monster and she a heavenly being. It would never work.

It turned out that I was right. I wonder even now that if I had not let the bad dreams back into my time with her, if it could have possibly worked between us. If I had managed to keep the purer dreams and not give in to the lure of less friendly solutions, would she have chosen differently? Was it all my fault that we were not at this moment together and happy? Had it really been all my doing?

The thoughts are too painful to bear, yet as I sit here in my home before the dying fireplace, they are all that haunt me. The questions that pursue my waking and even sleeping moments are whether or not I destroyed everything through my own self-loathing and doubt. They taunt me and berate me in turns, driving me further into the pit of my madness. I had looked into the void and seen myself. I am falling deeper and deeper into despair as each painful day passes.

She has probably married her boy by now. I wonder if it is as I had dreamt our own wedding to be. Is she as radiantly beautiful as I had always imagined? Of course she is. Nothing, not even my cruelty could harm her perfection. Even as she sobbed and begged and lost hope at my torturous hands, she remained glorious. Even as she plead with me to let her go, tears streaming down her face, she was the most stunning being on this sorry planet. Her beauty is beyond physical. It is ethereal. She is a seraphim and therefore untainted.

She would smile at her boy, beautiful in form as she was in spirit, and they would live in the cottage I had hoped to purchase. He would be the one in the garden with her, tending the flowers, not me. He would be the one to receive her kisses and hold her hand, not me. He would be the one to read to her each night until she drifted off in his arms, not me. He would be gifted with her glances and laughter and joy, not me. She would be happy with him, not me.

Dragging myself to the only part of my home that was not destroyed by the mob that night I let her go, I prepare myself for my nightly bout of torture. To make up for all that I had done to her, I put myself through Hell. It is my recompense for how I made her suffer.

The Louis Philippe Room was graciously untouched when the raiding and understandably furious hands of the Opera employees tore through. The secret door had been closed and there was too much commotion going on for anyone to figure out how to open it. I am grateful of this, for it gives me one little reminder of what I had shared with my angel.

My side still hurts from where I was shot. I have only barely cleaned it. I want to die. Though infection is not a preferable method, death does not seem inclined to take me in my sleep as I had hoped. I must taunt death; persuade it to take me.

My mask lies on the floor of her room, cracked over the eye and under the nose. I had taken it off that night and must have stepped on it. Yet another reason for her to have been so desperately terrified that night.

I look down into the empty eye-holes of the mask. I try to see through the eyes of the man that I could have been had the mask stayed on. She had mentioned at some point in the haze that was that night that I had more than one mask. It was more than the physical mask that I wore that had made her feel betrayed. I suppose she was right. I hide behind the porcelain to seem like a good man, but I hide behind my failing dreams to seem human at all. In my soul, I am wicked and awful. She accused me of as much in a surprising turn of anger. She had never been angry at me before. That outburst had shocked me almost more than anything else that happened in the chaos of my own actions. She had screamed at me not in fear, but in anger. Some say that those are one and the same emotions, but I felt something different break in me when seeing them on her.

Turning my gaze next to the furnishings of the room, I find myself sighing in something akin to weary disappointment. My home is filled with dark wood and garnet stylings, but this room is unlike anything else I own. Much like the being this room was made for, it is nearly a complete opposite. Though the sleigh bed is simple enough in design, the rich wood matches her chocolate curls more than my ebony locks. The soft green of the walls are the perfect compliment to the deep reds I so prefer. The rose pink and ivory of the upholstery on the vanity chair, small sofa, and writing desk chair all lend themselves to light thoughts. This room is the Rococo to my Baroque lifestyle.

My eyes find the pillows of her bed, the sheets still mussed from the last time she slept there. They make me wonder if they still hold some bit of her warmth. It is not possible, I know, but in my maddening despair I still find myself questioning.

Walking over to the bed on tired and stiff legs, my side stinging with every motion, I find myself freezing beside it. There, laying so innocently upon the cotton casing of her pillow, rests a single hair. It curls so sweetly and perfectly, left behind and I cannot help but imagine it waits for me. One piece of her that was not repelled by my presence. A gift, of sorts, for one who longed for too much as it was.

I fall to my knees, barely noting the pain, as my eyes brim with tears. One last essence of the woman I almost wondered to be a dream. This small piece of evidence as a solid reminder of her to keep my madness from convincing me of a fantasy.

I take it with shaking hands, pressing it to my heart, then to my horrid lips. I cannot help myself in this action. Though I long believed my kiss to have held the power to kill, I cannot find the will to stop myself from showering such affection on the one part of her I have left. I cannot kiss my memories of her and indeed her clothes or bedding would not be as much a part of her as this. This came from her and was not given by any other besides the God she so devoutly believed in.

I do not realise I am sobbing until I hear its echo return to me from the empty house. I am alone with my tears and sorrow and memories. Nothing will change that. I have created my own Hell after dreaming so long of finding a way out. My selfishness, jealousy, and twisted heart have made not only my fortune sour, but hers as well. Ruining her life and love for music hurts me more than anything else. How could she bear to sing now when all she would imagine were our lessons or myself? I have cursed her.

Pressing the hair to my heart again, I wish it could go through to the organ and remain. I will always hold her in my tattered heart, but to have a physical piece of her there may finally help me to let go of the life I burnt to the ground. I wish I could die.

I feel a shift in the air and know it is not caused by me. I wonder if it is the Daroga coming to check on me, or some last part of the mob come to finish me off. I hope for the latter, choking out a plea to kill me, to take away my suffering. I am now seated on the floor beside the bed, clutching at a single hair, sobbing my unnaturally amber eyes to puffy redness. I look like a demon and feel like the devil. I simply want it all to end.

'Erik?'

The voice who speaks my name is feminine and beautiful. It is the voice of an angel, despite the pain and worry that ring out in the single word. I look up towards it, wondering if somehow I am to be killed by an angel. Oh, to have that grace end my pitiful life must be a joke beyond measure.

I cannot see for the tears still in my eyes, but I make out a form in purest white coming towards me. Her skin is shining pale, nearly indistinguishable from the dress that flows elegantly around her. A brown mane flows out around her face, though I cannot make out any specific features. She is beautiful, I know, and I wonder if God is truly so cruel as to send his loveliest angel to cast me into Hell. But, my mind questions, is it not also a kindness for my last sight to be of one so lovely before I am thrown into the pit?

I feel her gaze shift to my hands, clasped at my heart. I feel possessive of my treasure for a moment, but her obvious curiosity breaks my resolve. I open my palms to show my prize.

'Please,' I whimper out. 'Do not take it.' I look at her pleadingly when her hand reaches out to the hair, but she rescinds it before it touches and I hear her gasp. 'Let me keep it until the end. I need her.'

I hear another gasp from the being above me but I cannot take my eyes off of the hair. I will look to my love until the very last. I want my final sight to be of her, even if it is such a small part of her.

'Oh, Erik,' I hear the angel gasp and feel something hit my wrist. I look to see a tear, but it is strangely not mine. It is hers; my angel's.

I do look up then to see my angel crying over me, her pretty shoulders shaking from silent sobs. I wish to reach out to her, some part of my mind telling me I should comfort her, yet before I can, she falls to her knees beside me and instead holds me.

I cannot think for the rate of my heart pounding in my ears. No one has ever held me as this being is. She wraps her arms about my shoulders, tucking her sweet smelling head in beside mine. She would hold a monster like myself close to her!

I squirm, trying to protest, to explain her folly and remind her of my hideousness. I tell her that I am a monster who must not be touched. I tell her how I ruin all I am near. I explain this, but she does not let go. She holds me tighter! I fight her, but I cannot win. I give up and simply sit on the floor in her arms, crying with her.

One of her hands comes up to my head and I gasp as she runs her fingers through my hair. She is comforting me, I realise. I have never felt something as wonderful as this. She is crying, yet I am the one she worries for. She moves me so that I lean against her breast, pressed close to her heart. My arms feel like lead, hanging uselessly at my sides. Some part of my mind remains conscious enough to ponder if I should hold her back. Another wave of sobs crash through me as I realise that I have the opportunity to do so.

She whispers hushing words in my ear as I quiver in her arms, still stroking my head and keeping me close to her warmth. I almost apologise for being so cool, my skin always holding more of a reptilian temperature than a human's. My love once complained of this and I was fully aware of her description of my hands smelling of death. My memory of these moments make me try to pull away. Feebly, I explain my reasoning, telling the angel that I am not worthy of her touch, nor anyone's.

'Erik,' she says again. I could listen to her speak my name for an eternity. Yet, I hear a tiredness in her tone, which reminds me of her purpose in being here.

'I am ready,' I tell her, still not meeting her eye. 'You have offered me far more than I deserve and I thank you. I am ready to go wherever you would take me.' I take a shuddering breath, bracing for the flames to lick up at me, to burn my flesh so that my body may finally match my face. I wait…and wait…and wait.

I look up, finally, my gaze questioning her hesitance. Why will she not kill me at last, or cast me into the gaping maw of Hell?

My eyes meet hers, finally seeing through the haze of tears which have paused in my confusion. Her blue, crystalline eyes. The eyes of my love.

I gasp, falling back from her as if pushed by some supernatural power.

'Christine?' I whisper out as though in prayer.

'Erik,' she says, reaching out to me. I see her slender hand coming towards me but the world is turning dark. I am falling backwards into black shadow. I cry out for her, fearing the dark. I wish to remain in the light with her. I wonder if this is God's final trick. Did he truly send Christine to me right before I was to die? Did he send an angel that looked like her, making me suffer just before Hell claimed me?

I feel one more tear slip free at these thoughts as the world around me disappears into nothingness. My final thought is an apology to Christine and all I put her through.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Whiteness filled my vision completely. I had half a mind to think I had ended up in the wrong place and was about to argue my destiny being in Hell, not Heaven, when the light changed and softened. Instead of being blinded, I was now being faced with the familiar glow of a lamp in an otherwise darkened room. I opened my eyes cautiously, wondering what I would see.

I looked about the strange room—strange in that it was not a room in my house—and felt a bit of dread enter my heart. I was on a bed, but it was neither my coffin bed nor the one in the Louis Philippe Room. This one, though similar in comfort and style, had blue sheets and a blue and white coverlet. The bedroom was a soft turquoise with white trim, while all of the furniture was a light oak. Everything seemed calming and light, but not in such a way as to make me uncomfortable. I preferred darker colours, but this was not intrusive in its current scheme.

Sitting up proved to be more difficult than opening my eyes. Though the sting was duller now, it still reminded me quite clearly of the injury to my side. Feeling my torso, however, I felt bandages wrapping firmly around my ribs. My stomach, I realised after a moment of laying still, no longer had the ache of hunger. Somehow during my sleep, I had been moved, fed, and had my wound dressed.

All thought of my being in Heaven vanishes with this realisation. If I was dead, I would not need any of this.

Finally pushing myself up into a sitting position, I notice there are windows beside my bed, but the curtains are firmly drawn. The light outside is non-existent suggesting that it was night time outside. This gave me some small measure of comfort. Night time I knew and could rely on to assist me should I need to escape. I could not remember much beyond going in the Louis Philippe Room what I presumed to now be some time ago, and passing out for some strange reason.

I got out of bed onto shaky legs. They were still tired and I knew my mind was a bit slower than I would have liked. I was thankful when I found the door to the room to be unlocked; even more so when I found myself on the ground floor of the house. From the décor and construct, I could tell it was a cottage-styled home. Likely, it only had the two bedrooms, potentially a small guest room at the back. I currently stood, looking out into the dining room with a bathroom to my left and a living room to my right. In all honesty, the layout was not too dissimilar from my home under the Opera, but it was different enough to make me wonder further where I was. A cottage could be anywhere in the French countryside. Not knowing how long I had slept did not ease my troubled mind. I feared I would not be able to make it back to Paris on my own, especially in my weakened state.

Stepping into the dining room, I kept my eyes open for any threat. I withheld a groan as I realised I had not thought to pick up a weapon of any sort when in the bedroom, yet I did not wish to return and potentially be trapped. I would have to make a dash for the front door, now in my sights as I neared the entryway to the living room.

My gaze was instantly drawn to the dying fire in the hearth. Before it sat a pair of wingback chairs, not unlike the one I favour in my own home. I was surprised, however, to see a pale hand drooping over the side of the one closest to me. I felt my chest tighten, my heart rate changing to that of preparedness to fight or flee. I pressed myself to the shadows of the room until something in my still hazy mind stopped me. I recognised that hand.

My heart nearly skipped a beat as I examined the fine, slender lines of the fingers that curled ever so slightly, the smoothness of the skin and how it shown in the firelight, and the glow through the perfectly rounded fingernails.

'Christine.' The name left me through a gasp. My knees felt weak, my heart pounded, and butterflies swarmed my stomach. How, I wondered, could I have ever mistaken that hand for anyone besides my darling love.

I hurried to her side on silent feet, crouching low as I peered around the obstructing wing of the chair. There, leaned back, eyes closed, head tilted, slumbered my Christine.

Her curls were a bit more frizzy than she usually allowed them to get and her whole posture spoke of complete exhaustion. A pang of guilt ran through me as I realised she must have been the one to look after me. This was closely followed by a blush of embarrassment, then sorrow as I remembered my "dream" from before. I had dreamt that an angel had come to me. I vaguely recalled before my passing out that I had seen Christine, but it was still a blur. I had likely been feverish because of my wound and madness.

The fact that she was here with me grounded me to the present, however. I was here with Christine and she was asleep after finding me on the brink of death and nursing me back to the state I now found myself in.

I reached out to her hand, needing to prove that this was not some elaborate dream. Here I was, living one of the fantasies I had imagined. I was in a cottage with Christine. I had the life I had wanted. She had dragged me from the hole I had called home for too long and she was here with me. I would be a fool to let her go now when I was so close to proving I could be what I had always wanted to be.

My fingers hesitated just a breath away from her skin. I could feel her warmth radiating out towards me as though she was beckoning me to come into the world of light she inhabited. I could feel the promise of all I had dreamt of just within the curve of her palm, and yet I froze. I thought of her boy, the happiness she could have without having to work or pull him along to find it. She should be with him, smiling and full of life right now, not exhausted and taking care of me. I, who has caused so much suffering in her life.

I made to stand, but my foot slid a bit, making a noise. She must have been listening for me because even that slight sound make her eyes blink open. I panicked, questioning if I should try to sing to her and lull her back to sleep while I made my exit. I hesitated too long, though, as she then turned her sleepily unfocused eyes on me. They widened when they took in my horrified face and I realised too late that my mask was not on.

I did the only thing I could think to do: I buried my face in her skirts so that she would not have to see it and cried.

'Erik?' Her voice was still slightly sleepy, but I could hear the alarm in it beginning. I cried only harder, clutching the soft fabric of her dress tighter. I was trying to convince myself that if I could just get these tears out of the way, I could tell her how foolish she was being in staying in this place with me. She should be with her boy, happy and living a life of luxury. She should be enjoying her life and having her needs put first always. I tried to tell myself that if I only reminded her of the correctness of her choice to be a Vicomtess, I would be able to let go of her again. I have tried vainly to convince myself of many things regarding Christine.

'Erik?' she repeated, her hands coming down to rest on my shoulders. I could tell she was trying to get to a spot where she could view my face, possibly to check if I was hurt. The compassion I knew to exist in her brought me even farther into despair. I would have to let go the only kindness I had ever known. Were it not for Christine, I would think there was none to be found in the world.

I felt her push my shoulders back some, but I clung on tightly to her, shaking my head and pathetically mumbling some words of plea to let me stay hidden. I knew I was being childish, but I could not find it in me to stop or care.

'Erik, dear, what's wrong?'

Her voice! So long had it been merely a haunting tone in my dreams, now once more a part of my life. I had missed her so!

'Erik, you have to tell me what's wrong,' she explained patiently. I could still hear her concern in her voice, but she was speaking more softly now.

Sighing raggedly through my sobs, I lifted my head some. I still kept the fabric shield over my visage, but she could at least hear me better. 'You shouldn't be here.'

Her hands remained on my shoulders, but I felt her pull back some in surprise. I relaxed my grip on her dress only slightly, preparing for her to leave me entirely. Surely by now she was realising her mistake and would make her excuses or just slowly slip away.

When she did not pull back any farther, I felt I should elaborate. 'You should not have come back for me. You should have left me there. You had everything you wanted.' I stopped myself from asking why she had come back, sufficing only to remind her of the life she had now left.

'Erik, look at me,' she said, her voice changing from concerned to commanding. I shook my head, lowering it again. 'Erik,' she spoke sternly, 'look at me.'

Despite every fibre of my being telling me not to, to turn away and spare her the sight of my hideousness, I could not deny her. I looked up, knowing I looked even more a mess than usual. My lack of nose meant that my sobbing had sent copious amounts of mucus pouring down my face. I had somehow managed to only wet her clothes with my tears, but those stains were enough to make me feel guilty.

My eyes finally slid over her face to meet her eyes and what I saw there nearly sent me sobbing anew. She was smiling at me with the sweetest light I had ever seen. My previous confusion over her being an angel once more made sense. How could a woman of such pure beauty be anything but an angel?

'I didn't have everything I wanted. I could not possibly leave my Angel of Music.'

Though my heart warmed at her affectionate meaning, her name for me sent me turning my gaze downward. 'I am no angel, Christine. I have proven to you many times that I am far from the seraphim you once believed me to be. I am nothing but a man, twisted, cruel, and awful. My actions were unforgivable and you made the right choice that night. We both know it.'

She pursed her lips, considering my argument. I half expected her to flee at that moment, but instead she slid down to kneel on the floor beside me and wrapped her arms about my shoulders, pulling me into her embrace. I was unaccustomed to both her closeness and her displays of affection. For all of the pleasant evenings we spent together in my home, rarely did we touch, and never without the protection of my gloves or suit. Skin had not touched skin since the night she left me. I was therefore shocked and stiff in her arms as she held me.

She hushed me gently in my ear, rubbing soothing circles into my back until my arms finally relaxed enough to not stick straight out like an automaton. I was nothing more than a limp doll in her arms as she calmed me.

After a little while, my sobs eased and I was able to think a bit more clearly. My head still rested on her shoulder, my face downturned and shaming me further by dripping tears and mucus onto her dress. Her chin was perched on my shoulder, pointy though it was, and I could hear her breathing in such a way as to encourage me to slow my own. 'Why do you always assume the worst of yourself?'

I could have laughed at her question, so wistfully and innocently asked. I felt a poisonous voice issuing from my lips; it was the one that spoke in sarcastic distain of everything and everyone around me. Any comment, regardless of its intention, was taken as an insult.

'Perhaps, my dear,' I spat, simultaneously hating myself for ruining the sweet name I had given her, 'because I have been trained by my previous actions. No matter how I tried to win your affections, or indeed anyone's, I was proven to be naught but a stain upon the earth. Each attempt I have made to be human has only shown how monstrous I truly am.'

I hid my face even more after saying this, wondering how I could ever dig myself out of the hole I had made with my cruel, self-depreciating remarks. They were rude to both myself and Christine. I was forever being unfair to the poor girl, making me wonder even more as to why she was here. I would have thought she would know me better by now.

Instead of leaving or reprimanding me, she only nodded patiently and continued to hold me. 'The world has been cruel to you, I know, but that does not mean you should let it make you so. I have seen you behave better than this, Erik. I know you only speak this way out of fear and uncertainty. I am here, and I am not going anywhere. You need not worry of that tonight.'

My tears, barely abated, started afresh. I could not fathom the words she spoke with such ease. Why was compassion so easy for her, but no one else? Heavens knew I was not very good at it. My bitterness and jaded view of the world kept me from being able to show the kindness that came so easily to Christine. It was one of the many things I had found to love about her.

I must have apologised for my ugly behaviour a thousand times before she finally pulled me back from her to meet my gaze. I resisted looking into those beautiful eyes for as long as I could, but their calm persistence won out and I dove into their sea blue depths. My limbs felt heavy again in a way they had not since my half-dead state. My head lolled forward, breaking the earnestness of our shared gaze.

'Oh, darling, let's get you back to bed. You are still recovering and need your rest.'

Had I been allowed a kind mother, I felt she would have spoken that way to me. Christine was more to me than I could say. She was a comfort when no one else dared touch my tainted flesh.

I let her help me back to a standing position and guide me to the room I had only just left. The bed was so inviting but my mind was screaming at me to demand answers to all of my questions. Beyond this, an icy fear was creeping up my spine that if I fell asleep, she would not be here when I awoke. I just knew that I would be completely alone in my home under the Opera once more if I let her do as she wished and put me to bed like a child.

I mumbled my protests through a sleepy body, fighting her pressing hands as they coaxed me to lie back on the soft mattress. In one finally moment of clarity, I snatched at her wrist, forcing my eyes open to stare into hers. I knew I must have looked manic, but I did not care in that instant how I looked.

'Will you be here when I wake up?'

I sounded like a child, but I was too tired to hate how weak I was.

She nodded patiently, still pushing my chest towards the bed and pulling the covers over my body. 'I will, I promise,' she assured in that sweet way only she could manage.

I watched her with slowly closing eyes as she took care to arrange the sheet and comforter to encase my long form. She tucked it right up to my chest, going so far as to place a hand to my cheek as she smiled down at me.

'Good night, Erik,' she said with a little tune in her voice. I could not help smiling, even as my hand reached up to take hers. I held her fingers as long as I was able, feeling their warmth in mine. The last thing I felt was a breath on my forehead and a softness touching there. I was already asleep by the time my addled mind placed the name for it. She had kissed me.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When next I awoke, I was once again momentarily lost as to where I was. The room looked different with sunlight pouring in through the windows, the white drapes providing an ethereal effect to the light and making the whole room look more like a dream. I could more clearly see the furniture of the room in this new light and appreciate the calming colour of the walls. Across from me was a tall wardrobe and beside it a rather pleasingly curved dresser, though I doubted how full both would be with clothes. My unusual stature and build made it quite difficult to find any kind of apparel in standard sizes that did not make me look like a boy outgrown his trousers or the same boy wearing his father's suit. To my left was a bedside table with the lamp I had noted the night before. The dome on the lamp had a painting of roses on it. I generally preferred the boldness of red roses, but the pink ones on the glass were quite pleasing to look at. To my right, beneath the windows, was a small writing desk. It was the only piece of wooden furniture in the room that was not made of light oak and its darker tone did more to comfort me than I would have expected.

Feeling rather warm and somewhat restless in the bed, I sat up, feeling the ache in my side. Remembering the previous night in faint bursts made me wonder how Christine's embrace did not aggravate the wound. I supposed it was partially from my shock at her action.

This thought led me to wonder where she was. By the light in the window, I suspected she would already be up and about. She was generally an early riser with the exception of when she lived with me. Lack of natural light and windows made it hard to tell the time of day in my home under the earth. Her training at the Opera had made her accustomed to starting the morning early so as to get in practice with the ballet. She had never lost this, even when she no longer was a dancer.

Sliding out of bed, I was grateful that the floor was not cold on my bare feet. I had not been aware of my state of undress the previous night, but now I was. I walked over to the wardrobe and opened it without much hope. I was surprised, therefore, to find that two pairs of trousers and three shirts hanging up. There was also a black jacket and further inspection proved that two waistcoats were folded neatly in the dresser along with a scant few pairs of under garments. My face flushed some to realise that Christine may have had to find and arrange all of these things, but I quickly banished the thought. I was still dressed in a pair of pyjamas that were pleasantly striped in light blue. These too must have been altered to fit me as they did a remarkable job in doing so.

I dressed with moderate speed, being careful of the bandages around my ribs and the pain that came from lifting my arms too high because of it. Bending over to put on shoes was too much for the pain in my side, so I forwent them, hoping Christine would not object. I took the brushes that were in one of the drawers of the dresser I now presumed to be mine and straightened out what I could of my messy hair. It had always been odd in its growth and how fine the strands were. Christine had said once that I had soft hair, which I took to be the highest of compliments. Getting its dark strands to obey me and organise, I finally looked in the rest of the drawers of the dresser. I was not sure my hope would be answered, but I had to try.

In the top most drawer lay what I sought. Cracked and chipped though it was, the familiar black ribbons of my mask felt like home as I tied them behind my head. I realised that Christine had generously not provided me with a mirror. She remembered my utter distaste for them and lack of them in my own home. This warmed my heart to consider as I left the room.

I did have to shield my eyes just the slightest bit when I stepped out into the dining room. I had not realised the night before how many windows were in the house. Two faced me now and their drapes were pulled back to let in the morning light. I saw now that the dining room was a gentle lavender colour with white trim and the top half of the walls being white and lavender wallpaper. It was a pleasant enough room, though quite feminine in tastes. A glance to the living room showed a light grassy colour to the walls with darker furniture. It had a bay window beside the front door with a cushion set in it and books stacked beneath the bench. A part of me envisioned Christine curled up there, the sun shining through her dark curls as she smiled gently at whatever she was reading. My visions of her often put her in a white dress that would glow in the light, making her look even more like the angel I had long imagined her to be. She would look beautiful in this home. I could see touches of her all around me and it nearly brought me to tears to think I was surrounded by her essence. This was her home and I was granted time within it.

A lilting tune echoed from the kitchen to my right, sunlight peaking through the open doorway. I could tell that this room was peach and its warmth reminded me of her smile. I could hear the sounds of cooking and though my instincts said to flee and not burden her further, I found my feet rooted in anticipation of her. I was enchanted by her as always, and though she was not trying hard at the song, I could not help how her voice made my heart cease to race and my mind to calm.

Before I could think of anything more to do, she came through the doorway. Her curls were completely loose and spilling every which way in an abandon I had only dreamt of. Her blue eyes sparkled in the light like stars and when she turned them on me, my breath caught to see her smile.

'Good morning,' she chimed, her voice still following a tune.

I knew I stood there like an idiot, frozen, likely mouth agape, but I could not bring myself to uproot myself or stain the moment by speaking.

'Did you sleep well?' she continued, her care and attention to me making me want to beg forgiveness for my every sin.

Dumbly, I found myself nodding. I had known upon waking that what had transpired the night before had not been a dream, but some part of me still had doubted until this moment. All question as to the reality of my current position flew from my mind in a mad dash of ecstatic joy.

Despite my lack of intelligent response, she still smiled broadly at me; perhaps it was the humour in my mental block that had her grinning, but in either case I could not begrudge the sight of her happiness or entertainment. She hummed sweetly and went about setting the table with the plates I had only just noticed she had brought with her. She already had silverware lined up on the round table, set for two, and was putting down breakfast foods.

I still gazed at her, completely lost as to what I should do, until she told me to sit, pulling out a chair in invitation to me. A gentleman could not deny a lady's request when put so kindly.

'I made you some tea,' she explained as she headed back to the kitchen momentarily. I had to fight the urge to lean out to keep looking at her, hating to part with the sight of her loveliness. She quickly returned, her eyes set on the cup in her hands. It was simple china that suited the cleanliness of the styling in the home. 'I hope I made it all right,' she said, finally letting out a hint of the insecurities she held so deep within her.

'I am sure it will be fine.' I, as always, tried to instantly reassure her. It was not so much that I did not love her insecurities as they were as much a part of her as any other trait, but I did not want them to rule her. Her joy and innocence and confidence should not be quashed by the black cloud of loneliness and hesitation that is this uncertainty.

She smiled but I could see the teasing hint in her eye of 'wait until you have tasted it'. I found my lips tugging to match her expression some as I raised the cup. It was my favourite black tea, making me wonder if she had brought it with her from my home. Taking a sip, I felt my tongue instantly want to curl back into my throat. It was bitterer than I generally liked, though she had not been without reason to think so after all of the times I had complained to her over her copious use of sugar in her own tea. I managed to swallow, however, though my smile felt forced as I nodded to her expectant face. I could not bring my throat to emit words, but given how the corners of her eyes pinched in her smile, I knew the jig was up.

'That bad, huh?' She put her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing in internal laughter. 'I'll bring you some coffee instead, then.'

I wanted to protest that it was bad for the voice to drink coffee, but I was lucky enough to have gotten away without disappointing her. She appreciated my efforts to spare her feelings, so it would be rude to push.

'One day,' she said from the kitchen, 'I will get your tea right.'

I withheld the smart-aleck comment that threatened to ruin the pleasant moment we were having and let her remark slide.

She quickly returned with two cups of coffee, placing one before myself and her own plates. 'I didn't think the tea would work so I made extra coffee,' she explained at my curious expression. How she could read my expression through the mask that covered most of my face was beyond me, but I chalked it up to her diligence in being kind.

I looked down to my plate to see a piece of toast with an egg in the middle, some fresh strawberries and blueberries, and a bit of bacon. Surprised to see so much food, I glanced over to Christine.

'You know, at some point I will have to make you a Swedish breakfast. It's mostly a thousand different ways to make porridge and cured meats, but I think it would be fun,' she said as though we had breakfast like this every morning. The way she was acting was starting to make me anxious. She made it sound like this would go on forever and she would not disappear as soon as I left the room. Though I felt certain that she was here now and last night had not been a dream, a part of me could not let go of the fear that this all soon would fade away into nothingness and I would be left to fall back into my endless despair. She would announce something along the lines of 'well, I have to go back to my husband' or 'I only wanted to make you see what you ruined for yourself' or even 'welcome to Hell'. The last I could see quite easily being true. I would be forced to live this beautiful morning over and over only to have to be faced with watching her leave me again and again.

Her hand on mine woke me up to the fact that I had been spiralling into my own twisted mind and my heart and breath were now racing. I looked at her frantically, hoping none of what I had just imaged would come to pass.

She seemed at a loss for words as she stared into my eyes with nothing but genuine concern. At last, she found words, though once they were said I could tell they were not what she had been hoping for. 'You do not have to eat it all if you don't feel you can.'

Just like that, my heart calmed and my mouth uttered the truest laugh in the world. I could not hold it in and I just kept shaking with my mirth. She looked startled by the noise but quickly giggled as she realised that her words were no where near as elegant as she had wished. We laughed for some seconds and I did not want it to end. I had not seen her this carefree around me since I had been her Angel of Music. She would laugh at my jokes before she knew it was a hideous excuse of a man who told them.

Best of all, her hand remained on mine, our skin touching in such a way I thought I would die of bliss. Her skin was so soft and smooth while I knew my own hand to be rough from callouses built up over the years. I had a violinist's fingers, but they were far more spindly than most. Still, she kept the contact even as our mirth faded to simple smiles.

I could have stared into her eyes forever, but she realised how the situation had changed and turned her gaze down to her food. I did the same, noting her slight embarrassment. I should have known better also and quickly let the moment pass.

Eating with the mask on had always been difficult, but over the years I had managed to perfect it to an art. Though it was by no means a beautiful or pleasant art, I could still achieve my goal relatively well. I even surprised myself in my efficiency and overwhelming appetite when it came to the breakfast she had prepared for me. I ate all of the berries, all of my toast, and one of the two pieces of bacon. On a regular day, I would not have eaten even half of my plate, regardless of who made it for me.

Christine looked as impressed as I was when she saw how well I had done. For half a moment I felt like a child who should be rewarded for my job well done. My mother would have made me finish completely, but she would have potentially breathed a sigh of relief. She was always determined that my eating would help me look more human.

'I must say that I am surprised,' Christine admitted. 'I don't think I have ever seen you eat this much before.'

I was about to agree with her when a sound reached my ears. It was akin to a whooshing sloshing noise. It sounded like the sea.

Looking behind me to the front door, I missed her getting up, gathering the plates, and heading off to the kitchen.

'Let me wash these and when I come back, we will replace the bandages on your wound,' she said, already moving off to the other room.

I followed my line of sight to the living room area, finding a small upright piano against the opposite wall from the fireplace. This only distracted me for a moment, its keys calling to me. I was somewhat shocked as music had held no promise for me since that night, but now with Christine back in my life—however briefly—I felt inspiration tugging at my mind once more.

The sound I had heard earlier and realised I had been hearing since last night—and not paid attention to—came again. I opened the front door and stood on the threshold, listening to the sounds of waves that were not too distant.

As if guided by some unknown force, I felt my legs carrying me out through the small garden, past the flowers, under the trellis that was hung with wisteria, and into the grass beyond. I did not even think about the fact that I was now exposed to the light of day and any passers by, though I did note that I was alone. I kept walking until I reached the very crest of the grass before it dropped off to the steep dunes of the beach. Before me lay the ocean.

It had been years since I had come to the shore, though I had followed Christine the night she came to see her father's grave in—

'Perros-Guirec,' I muttered, letting my voice be carried off by the sea wind.

I had heard her approaching, but my confusion and shock had not fully addressed her until I spoke. I could sense her beside me, gazing out at the view same as me. I looked down at her and realised this was the first thing I had said all morning. With this, I felt all the barriers I had not know where erected come crashing down.

Tears spilled over my eyes as I looked down at her in sudden despair. She looked so perfect with her pale skin and long curls blowing in the breeze. She was even wearing a white dress as I had always imagined. She looked like an angel.

'Why?' I asked before I could stop the break in my voice. I felt my knees buckling as she gazed up at me in concern and pity.

'Why, what?'

'Why did you bring me here? Why did you come find me? Why did you save me? Why are you not with your Vicomte?'

Partway through my questioning my legs gave out. I crumpled before her as I had so long ago when she had seen my face and I had begged for forgiveness. I reached out to her skirts, billowing and light in the wind. She was not wearing a dress so much as a fancier version of a nightgown. I wanted to smile to imagine what the ladies of Paris would say if they saw her informal attire, but I was too preoccupied by the fact that the fabric I sought to burry my face into was eluding me.

Christine knelt down in front of me, much as she had the previous night, and took me into her arms. This time I had more experience and more desperation. I clung to her, pressing her body to mine as I held my face as close as I could to her shoulder. Distantly I hoped the mask would not dig into her skin, but my tears were too prevalent to check. I could not let go. I could not let her go again and this thought scared me even more. If she should wish to leave, I would not allow it. She would be my prisoner again and I would be ruining my one remaining chance—a second chance I did not deserve in the first place—to be happy with her.

I felt her look out to the sea as I continued to cry. I knew she must be trying to find words to answer my questions with, though at that moment I did not care if she did. I could not afford to face the fact that she may not know why she did what she did. All I cared about was that she stayed with me; that she let me hold her just this one time, that she remained for as long as she was able, and that she not look back when she left.

'Some people are afraid of the ocean,' she said at last, thoughtfully. 'They are afraid of the strength and power, but I find it enchanting. The ocean can be frightening, but it can also be so gentle and beautiful.'

I stopped crying as hard. Something told me she was no longer talking about the sea.

'I have a lot of good memories of this place. I wanted to share some with you.'

I pulled back to look at her, hoping to see her real purpose in those honest eyes, but all I saw was patience beyond measure and the tenderness that never failed to exist in her. Even when she was furious with me or crying over what I had done, there was always a softness hidden down in the depths of those blue eyes. It was her light that shone even in the dark, illuminating her from within and it was the proof I needed for my theory of her seraphic nature.

'Come,' she said, standing up and helping me to follow suit. 'Let us go and redress your bandages.'

I nodded mutely, having lost my voice to the power of her kindness. She took my arm as we walked, making it seem for all the world that we were nothing but an ordinary couple headed home. I was struck by this, feeling the tug of memory for one of my dreams.

'Christine,' I asked softly, savouring her name as I often did. 'What day is it?'

'It is June 5th,' she answered plainly.

My mind had to stretch to remember what day she had left me on. It had been at least a month since that night. 'What day of the week is it?'

She blushed, realising that was partially what I had wanted to hear in the first question. 'Sunday,' she answered gently.

I looked down at our arms entwined as we walked towards the house. Here I was, walking with Christine on a Sunday in the broad daylight like any other man.

Straightening my posture and holding my head high, I walked with more purpose and thought than I had in years. I was walking my beloved back to the home we were currently sharing. I almost dared someone to walk by, challenging their questioning looks at someone like me walking with an angel like Christine. Yes, I thought, I am walking with the most beautiful woman in the world on my arm.

Coming up to the lavender door of the house, I found myself opening it for her. My gentlemanly behaviour was in full force once again and she did not seem to mind. I could just make out the smirk of secret pride on her lips, but I might have been imaging things. She did not know of my desires in this form. I may have mentioned it to her once in one of my sobbing rants, but I doubted she would remember. It was hard for me to recall which conversations I had with her and which with the Daroga. My mind was fuzzy still, but I hoped she could find some pleasure in walking beside me so as to allow the occurrence to repeat. I did not hold my breath for this, but with one dream already come true, who was to stop me from making more?


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

'Here, sit down and take off your jacket. At least unbutton your shirt,' Christine instructed. I did so love her commanding teacher voice. After years of my tutelage, I could hear a bit of myself in her tone. It was still more genuinely Christine, though. Her request, however, sent blood to my face with the intent of making me blush.

'Christine, I have had worse injuries than this in harder to reach places. I am certain I can take care of it myself. You need not trouble yourself.'

She gave me a look that closed my confident mouth. 'And I have been dressing this wound for almost a week while you nearly died of fever. I think I know what I'm doing by now.'

I could not argue her, desire it though I might. She was right despite how it made me cringe. I did not want to think of how much trouble I had been to her. I knew from past experience what it was like to take care of someone who was dying or nearly so. Looking after the Daroga's son the little I had gave me a new appreciation for the nurses who did it day in and day out. Humiliation silenced me as I thought of all Christine must have endured. I did not wish to think on the details of the messes she had to clean up due to my inability to be a functioning human.

I sat, blocking the images from my mind until she returned. I had not fully tracked her movements through the house, but I did note that the bathroom seemed to be the door next to the kitchen. There was another tucked up into a small hall beside it, but I was distracted by her pulling my jacket off my shoulders. She muttered under her breath in what I assumed to be Swedish as she did this.

'I take it this is your room,' I asked, pointing over my shoulder from the piano bench. She nodded, humming the affirmative as she unbuttoned my shirt. 'What's that room?' I pointed now to the room next to my own.

She grinned now. 'It's a surprise. I'll show you when we're done.'

I waited patiently as she took my shirt off, revealing my still emaciated form. I had never thought about my body's appearance until Christine came into my life. My face had always been at the forefront of my mind, but now that we found ourselves in this position I wondered if my physique or lack thereof bothered her. The Vicomte had not been an Adonis, either, but at least he had more to him than skin and bone. The Daroga had always been surprised when I would show my strength because as he so eloquently put it I looked like I could not manage to lift a wet cloth. I had carried Christine on a few occasions without issue, but I felt confident she could do the same for me if she tried. My muscles were of the leaner kind and always had been.

A poke at my side of the bandages being removed brought my mind back to the present moment. I found it was easier to get lost in my thoughts than to fully acknowledge what was going on. She had me lift my arms up, cringing at my poorly disguised wince of pain for doing so.

'I'm sorry,' she muttered, working a little quicker so I would not have to continue to stretch the skin on my side.

'I have been through worse, I assure you,' I told her, but all I got was a grimace of pity. She did not like it when I calmly mentioned being hurt. I had not done so often, wishing to keep my past as far away from her prying mind as possible, but each time something had come up about my being tortured it brought her pain. I would do anything to keep her from feeling badly for me.

I peeked down to see what the damage was to my side and was surprised to see that the graze was healing much faster than I would have guessed. Given that I had been prepared to let it become infected and kill me, I had been expecting it to be much worse.

Apparently I said some of this out loud—a bad habit of mine after too many years alone—, for she replied with her brow furrowed, 'You mustn't say things like that.'

Looking at her in surprise, I asked why not.

She gazed at me full on as though that was the most ridiculous question she had ever heard. 'Because it is a sin to take your own life.'

I scoffed. 'My dear, you know well enough that I am not the kind to allow religion to rule my actions. Besides, what did I have to live for?'

The pain in her eyes at that moment made me regret my words. Hurt and shame and guilt were things I had no wish to see in her. She did not deserve to have those feelings. I had no right to put those weights on her delicate shoulders.

'I am sorry, Christine.' I did not avert my eyes, but my voice was soft. I had never truly apologised for any of the Hell I had put her through and I hoped my sincerity in that moment could make up for at least part of it.

She took in a tense breath but continued on with her work. Her fingers were very gentle and I was surprised to find that she did not tie the bandage too loosely because of this. She was not treating me as though I would break but she was keeping contact to a minimum, for which I was grateful. As little as I was used to of touch, what she was giving me was making my heart want to do backflips. Each graze of her fingers against my skin was producing goose flesh and causing my breath to hitch. I tried to hide this as much as possible because I knew it would only lead to awkwardness.

'There,' she said triumphantly when the new bandage was in place. She smiled at the white gauze that showed off my deathly paleness even more and I wondered what about that could bring her joy. She finally met my eyes and the smile remained, taking my breath away. 'Now, shall we see what your surprise is?'

I could tell from the giddy kind of excitement she was just barely concealing that she desperately wanted to show me. Though my curiosity was burning, I consented mostly to appease her. To my utter shock and delight, she took my hand only moments after I had finished buttoning up my shirt. I had yet to tuck it in or even think of putting on my jacket before she was pulling me off to the other end of the house.

Glancing back at the piano somewhat longingly, I told myself I would have plenty of time to stretch my fingers along the ivory keys later.

Leading me past the bathroom, we ducked into a little corner to face a darker wooded door. Unlike the rest of the house that consisted mostly of pastels and white trim, this door was mahogany and styled more heavily like the ones in my home under the Opera. It made me wonder for half a second if it was from my home, but the ridiculousness of that idea quickly made me shake the thought away.

Christine grinned back at me and moved over so that I was the one who would open the door.

'Do you want me to close my eyes?' I asked playfully, despite the nervous tremor that shook my voice.

She shrugged and then picked her smiled back up. This did little to reassure me, though I could not tell exactly why I was so nervous at all. Something about the fact that the door was more hidden and different from the rest of the house made me feel there was something very significant about the room I was about to enter. Some part of me feared it would lead back to my home and all of this would have turned out to be a complete fantasy. Perhaps I built this false world in some mad haze and did not remember it until I stumbled upon it.

Somewhat unconsciously, my hand found hers again. I surprised both of us by this bold move, but I could not shake the feeling that once I opened the door she would disappear or change somehow. I ignored the sight of her raised eyebrows in my peripheral as I grasped the golden doorknob. It opened easily and I took a breath in as it did so.

Much like my home, there were no windows. There were only walls of books. The two side walls had floor to ceiling bookcases. The far wall had a short desk, much like the one in my bedroom, and the wall closest to the door had a red plush sofa with a lamp beside it. What drew my attention away from the red walls with gold accenting, was the sleek, black piano situated near the centre of the room. I also noted that there was a violin resting on the lid of the piano, but the fact that we had two of the instrument surprised me.

I looked back to Christine and could feel my eyes welling. Her own were blinking back the same emotion. 'Do you like it?'

I opened and closed my mouth a few times, making her giggle.

'I had it furnished just for you.'

'H-How?' I managed out at last.

She blushed then, looking modest and perfect as she directed her gaze to the floor. She had completely baffled me and I knew how much she had longed to do that. I can be very good at figuring out number and realistic problems, but this was beyond me.

'When Mama Valerius died, she did not have much, but she left me this house. It was the one Papa and I had stayed in when we came here when I was little. I had always loved it and Mama knew that so she had the deed transferred to me. I had a bit of savings from the Opera to fix up this room. The books I got from an estate sale not too long ago. I hope you like them. I know yours were more varied, but not much survived after…'

I let her trail off, turning my wondering eyes back to the room she had made for me. No one had ever given me anything before, let alone designed a whole room in a house for me. This home was special to her and I felt something shift in my stomach to realise that she had changed it to suit me. She was not lying when she had said she wanted to share memories of this place with me. Putting two and two together, I rounded on her with a form of fearful excitement.

'Does that mean I am to stay here?!' Truly, I had not meant to shout it, but my desperation was to the point where I could no longer control it. I had to know for certain or I would never be able to rest easily ever again.

Her smiled of startled confusion slowly wore off as her brows continued to knit. 'Well, yes. If you would like to, that is.'

I could have fainted dead away right there. I stumbled some until I was able to collapse on the sofa. I put my head in my hands, groaning as the world continued to spin. My thoughts were spinning around with it. Christine was giving me a home by the sea that she loved. She had thought of me kindly and helped me to live. She was giving me a reason to live. She was giving me a place to continue my life.

From above me, I felt her hand touch my rounded back as I continued to moan, overwhelmed as I was by the onslaught of emotions. 'Erik?' Her voice was just as it had been the previous night. It was calmly coaxing yet still tinged with worry. 'Erik, are you all right?'

I could not respond. I could not manage to get my mouth to do anything or my mind to form human words she would understand. Too many words of thanks, of begging for her understand how indebted I was to her, of self-degradation and how I did not deserve her generosity warred within me.

Christine sunk down to my level, taking her hands and placing them over my own as she sought out my gaze. I could not meet her compassionate nature now. She was too angelic and sweet for me to handle right now. It was as though I would be burned by the holy light she held inside her. I was a sin, a blight upon her life and yet she showed me kindness.

'Erik, please don't cry. I don't want you to be sad. I am sorry. I should have known this would be too much at once, but I was excited to share it with you.'

Her fingers ran through my hair and that contact was so personal that it brought me back. I snapped my eyes up to hers instantly.

'You think I am saddened?' I asked in disbelief. She seemed confused by my question, though given I had been crying without realising I had to admit she had a right to be. I laughed at her expression of bafflement. 'You have given me more than I could ever hope to return—ever hope to deserve and you think I am saddened by this? Christine, you made me a room—no—you gave me a place in your life. How else could I react? All I have ever wanted was a place in your life and here you are giving it to me as though it was nothing more than a pat on the back! Christine, I am overwhelmed, overjoyed, and simply beyond words to thank you for everything you have done!'

Through this she did start crying, but as soon as I moved to ask her if it was because of pain or sorrow, she hugged me again. I had more embraces in two days than I had my whole life. It was harder this time as I was on the sofa and she kneeling on the floor, our height difference being even more extreme, but I would not have given it up for the world.

She clung to me as I had to her earlier and I wondered how many more times we would go through this desperate clutching before we were certain the other would not drift away on the wind. My arms held her back, though not as tightly as I had before as she was holding me now. I did not mind how much she squeezed or how long it lasted so long as it happened and it was real.

I nearly wondered if she held onto the Vicomte this way, but banished the thought before it could take root. I would not have that boy spoiling this moment for me. It would be just Christine and me for my memories to fall back to in moments of loneliness. I could have this bliss for now.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

When our embrace eventually ended, she looked up at me with such tenderness in her eyes. Her gaze changed, however, to note that my tears were now slowly slipping down my chin. My mask had caught many of them, but eventually the torrent had pushed through the barriers and leaked out the bottom. Her brow puckered in sympathy and she rested her hand on my covered cheek. There was nothing in this world more divine than having Christine put her hand on my face in gentle affection. Her skin's heat slowly started to spread into the mask's otherwise forbidding porcelain. While I could not feel the temperature change on my skin yet, I knew she was showing me more of her limitless kindness.

Slowly, almost so slowly I did not notice, her other hand kept up to the back of my head. I felt an experimental tug on the ribbons holding my disguise in place. Her eyes searched mine, but I could barely keep the contact. I knew I would let her remove it whether I truly wanted her to or not. I was powerless against her pleading expression. I consented in a slow blink and she undid the bow.

The satin ribbons seemed to fall past the mask in slow motion as the weight transferred from pressing slightly downward on my cheeks and beginning of a nose, to being relieved of it completely. It slid into her waiting hands as if it was destined to rest there.

I still could not meet her eyes. I knew she was looking at me, seeing my uncovered face in all of its hideousness, but I could not bring myself to make it seem real by sharing her gaze. The monster is only real if he looks back at you.

It was her hand on my cheek again that finally made my shocked eyes snap up to hers.

The softness of her skin against mine, the heat finally penetrating through to my bones, and the sweetness of her blue eyes all mixed together to make tears prick my eyes again.

'Oh, now, don't start that up again,' she said with sympathetic tiredness. She was likely remembering all of the times I had cried on her in my home under the Opera. I made her weary.

Surprising me further, she produced a handkerchief from I knew not where and began to gently dab my face with it. It took me a moment in my paralysed shock that she was drying off the tears from my skin. She also wiped down the inside of the mask for me so I would not have it wet when I eventually put it back on.

'Christine,' I murmured, 'why are you so kind to me?'

She seemed oddly taken aback by my question, but she did consider it a moment before answering. 'Well, I suppose one reason would be because you were very kind to me when I needed it most.'

I wanted—in that twisted part of my mind that seeks to ruin every situation—to remind her of all the times I had not been kind. I wanted to tell her about the times I had yelled at her, cursed at her, the time I had dug her fingernails into my face until blood crusted under them, staining her with my ugliness. This torturously cruel side to my brain wanted to ruin everything good about this. It was out of fear that I wanted this illusion to end. I wanted it to all be fake. I could not comprehend what to do with myself if this was real.

Somehow, in that impossible way of hers, she seemed to sense my self-destructive mood and decided to change the subject.

'While you were sick and I was taking care of you, I found that putting lotion on the dryer parts of your face seemed to help it.'

I do not know what I was expecting her to say when she started that sentence. I had felt humiliation rise in me, but when it turned to talk of looking after my face, I was caught somewhere between mortification and surprise. 'Y-You touched my face?' I did not dare ask the question most pressing on my mind of "you put lotion on my face?" This act would require not only contact but also prolonged contact of smoothing something around on my skin.

She blushed, making me feel even worse. I wanted this conversation to end. I would go back to the other one in favour of this. 'I wanted to help you. Those welts you get on your cheeks looked so painful that I couldn't imagine how you live with them.'

I did not want to think about the pimples and occasional blisters I suffered from because of the trapped oils and constant rubbing from the mask. She would have had to take care of those. I shivered just thinking of her trying not to vomit as she worked on my face. I do not even like to do those things. I had all but given up on them, yet between wishing to look my best for her—regardless of the fact that the mask hid them—and the pain they caused me, I could not ignore it. Knowing she had seen such further examples of my hideousness did nothing to help my current mood.

'Erik?' She sounded tentative and I noticed she was slightly flushed. 'Have I overstepped?'

I wanted to honestly answer her that yes she has overstepped in the most beautiful way imaginable, but all I did was shake my head. She seemed to remain sceptical but did not press the subject.

Somewhat thankfully, a knock at the front door changed our focus. I nearly jumped out of my skin, searching the room instantly for good hiding spots. Catching Christine smiling towards the door made my heart sink. I had yet to ask her my biggest question of all and I feared it would be answered now.

She rose easily, holding out my mask. 'You won't need it, but I know you will probably want it,' she explained cryptically.

She expected me to greet the person with her?! If the guest was who I thought it was, she must be out of her mind! Still, I accepted the mask and did not protest when she took my hand and led me out of my study. She glanced back only once to make sure I had not somehow detached from my hand to escape.

My gut sunk further and further with each step we took towards the front door. I could not see who was waiting for us, but another string of knocks made Christine's voice chime out that we were coming. I lived in that ringing of her voice for as long as I could. It was so musical despite its simplicity in words. It reminded me—as if I had forgotten—why I loved her so.

She let go of my hand and for that instant I felt like I was lost at sea. I was drifting away into the unknown depths and a fear gripped me that I would fall too far to see her light ever again. I felt the gripping panic rise in my chest that she would fade away into the bright sunlight that flooded in from the now open door. She would walk off into Heaven and leave me all alone. It was like watching her leave my Hell to be with her boy all over again. She would leave me now and never looked back.

My panic made me almost lunge forward to reclaim her hand. She had been in process of greeting our guest. The moment our skin touched, I felt the sensation of falling disappear. I kept my head down as I just stood there, clutching her hand and breathing a little more heavily than was necessary. A flush was creeping up my neck as I felt her surprised stare on me. I could feel our guest's stare equalling hers, but I did not look up. I just needed to hold her hand and know she would not leave me again.

'Erik?'

She keeps asking that and it made me briefly wonder if she did not recognise me. Had I changed so much from the last time we were together? Had my illness changed me? Has living outside of my home become so unusual? I supposed that seeing me somewhere else could be a bit shocking. I must have looked severely out of place in this home and away from my shadows. I felt more exposed here, but not quite uncomfortable. Christine's presence was helping me a lot in that.

'I just…needed you,' I mutter, feeling pathetic.

I nearly looked up when I felt her other hand cover mine. Our hands touching feels like a bolt of lightning had shot up my skin and skated along my skin. It was comforting and thrilling at the same time; it made me want to hold her again.

There was a silence that stretched on between us, but it was soon interrupted by the clearing of a throat. I recognised the noise and looked up so quickly my head almost spun.

The Daroga stood in the doorway, his black hair shining in the sun and his tan skin seeming to glow. His green eyes flashed in a smile and I knew he was holding in laughter at my reaction.

'Oh, please come in, Nadir. It's good to see you again,' Christine said cheerily.

I whirled my eyes to her. 'How do you know him?! And why do you call him by his first name?' My voice was booming as it had not been for a month, yet it came back to me rather easily and my spine straightened itself automatically. Once again, I was feeling the power of the Opera Ghost running through me.

Her hands fisted on her hips and her eyes sparkled dangerously. She had broken our contact and though its loss did not bother me now, I realised the peril I had stepped into. Christine was becoming angry with me and that was more dangerous than my Punjab Lasso.

'I know him because he helped me return to your house on the lake and drag your nearly dead body out and into the sunlight. He has been helping me look after you this whole time and even moved into a house out here so he could stay close in case I needed something. I call him by his first name because he is my friend and has allowed me to do so. Now, do you have any more demands or are you ready to be a pleasanter host?'

Let it be known that my reason and my stubbornness are not always in agreement and that my stubbornness is enough to make a mule seem fickle. I held her stare, not caring for the warning bells going off in my logical brain. I kept my head high, hoping she would back down as I somehow thought she should. When she did not, I resorted to the only thing I knew to do.

'I am going to play the piano in my study. I would kindly request no one disturbs me.'

I turned on my heel and stalked out of the room. I heard, just as I was closing the door, Christine sigh in tired disappointment, 'He hasn't changed.' To which the Daroga replied, 'You expected him to?'

I must admit that this stung my pride a bit, but I could not take another hit by turning back now. Like the child I was behaving like, I closed the door firmly and did not leave as Christine and the Daroga had their little visit. I thought them both traitors anyway, talking behind my back—ignoring the fact that I was the one who turned aforementioned back on them. Here I was, enjoying my time with Christine and of course the Daroga had to come and stick his handsome nose into everything. He just had to ruin it all.

Banging on the piano did little relieve my mood. Like a dark cloud, it hung over me, blocking out any chance of sunlight in thoughts of Christine. The sad thing was that I was honestly curious as to how all of this had come about. I was still caught up in the gratitude of not being dead and alone in my home underground that I had been putting off the important questions as to why I was here. I knew I needed the answers soon, but fear paralysed me. Much as it had when Christine had been living with me. Her returning to me seemingly of her own free will was something of a miracle and I did not dare look that gift horse in the mouth. Things were different now, though. I needed to know why she saved me and kept me in her life. Were it not for the fact that she specified only this particular room in the house was designed for my tastes, I would think this house was meant to be a gift to me. She would get me settled and then leave to whatever it was she was supposed to have.

Her words at the beach came back to me, though. She wanted to share her memories of this place with me. She wanted me here with her. Could it be that she was no longer engaged to the Vicomte? I scoffed at that idea. Though I had not noticed a ring on her finger, I could not make myself believe that she would turn down the love of her life for someone like me. That boy was everything I was not and could give her everything I could never begin to offer. She had her dream prince waiting for her to take her away from the hideous monster. Yet like the tale of Beauty and the Beast, she returned. Perhaps she thought that she could get some kind of prince out of me. A bit of sun, some healthier eating habits, and fresh air would transform my hideous exterior into something much more resembling of a living human being.

I nearly cackled to think about that. My poor, deluded Christine. She would be so disappointed. After all, I thought I had already proven to her that my true face is no mask. There is nothing else hiding beneath. She had pulled down all of my defences that night and it scared her beyond reason. How could she forget that? I had nowhere left to hide, so what she saw in that raging, crying lunatic was who I truly am. All of the gentlemanly behaviour I exhibited was all an act to fool her into loving me. I was willing to play the part forever if she would have me. What more could I offer? Yet it was not good enough. She wanted more from me when I had nothing left in me to give.

So caught up in these thoughts was I that I hardly noticed her enter the room. She was like a mouse sometimes, tiptoeing about as though she could sneak up on me.

'Erik?' There was that plaintive question again. I was beginning to hate it. Did she not know it was me? Was she hoping for someone else? I felt my fists clench, the blood rushing through my head almost drowning out her next words. 'Nadir left. He really only came by to make sure you were well and I did not need anything.' I heard a tender smile enter her voice as she said softly, 'He is such a nice man.'

I could not take it anymore. Her thoughtlessly kind comments, her gentility, her compassion for those who do not deserve it. I could not understand it. I rounded on her, my shoulders high and my height daunting as I loomed over her tiny figure.

'Yes, he is nice, isn't he,' I sneered. 'Unlike Erik who is cruel and wicked and repulsive. I do not know how you stand me, Christine.' I may have spoken the truth, but it came out with a sickeningly snide voice. 'It must pain you to have to have looked after me day in day out. I cannot imagine the strain.'

Her eyes showed her emotions as they always have. She oscillated between fury and confusion. 'Erik, what are you talking about?'

'I am merely noting how much easier it would have been to just let me die! Did you ever wonder if maybe I did not want to live?! Did you ever consider that I was better off alone in the dark? No. Because you are my angel. You are my saviour and must pull me to the light. My poor, misguided child who thinks she can save me. Leaving me to die would have been a sin and my good Christine cannot allow that. She cannot bear the thought of being bad. She cannot imagine anyone wanting to be that.'

I had been walking forward, backing her up until she had fallen into the sofa's welcoming cushions. Her eyes were wide, still unsettled on their mood.

'You think that with a little kindness you can change me. You think that there is something worth saving in me. Well there isn't! There is nothing in me worth having. I am nothing! What you see,' here I pulled off my mask, 'is what you get!'

I stood there, breathing hard as she stared up at me like a startled deer. We were frozen in this awful moment where I could swear I could still hear my voice echoing through the house.

My shoulders felt suddenly tired and fell. My eyes were prickling, but I did not acknowledge the tears that threatened. My voice, when I spoke next, was broken and hollow. 'I can never be who you want me to be.'

I crumpled. I was so weary, so lost, and so very sorry. I felt sobs choking me and just sat there crying. The day had been so full of that already, but I could not help it. Too much had changed. Too much had happened for me to just accept it like a normal person might. I was not normal. I was not strong. I was fragile, unlike Christine. I once thought her delicate, and in some ways she was, but never in the ways I expected her to be. She was stronger than I had ever been and I took that for granted every time. She knew how to see the best in everything and make it that way. I just ruined everything I touched.

'I am just so confused,' I wept. My mask laid a bit away from me, its empty eyeholes staring at me in silent judgement. The cracks in the porcelain felt like the cracks in my soul. I was bleeding inside and I did not know how or if I could fix it.

Christine gave a sigh that sounded as though she was not only tired but was being forced in a direction she had been hoping to avoid. 'You have a question you want to ask me.' She said it rather than asked. It made me feel even more like a child.

'Why are you not with the Vicomte?'

She took a breath and let it out slowly. She reached down and tugged at my arms, urging me to sit on the sofa beside her. I clambered up and sat with my shoulders hunched forward, forcing me to look up like a dog being scolded. She watched me sit like this for a moment before reaching out and moving my shoulders back to a more straightened position. She muttered something about not liking bad posture and I was instantly reminded of my mother, hitting my back with a ruler when I slouched as a child. Christine was clearly much gentler in her corrections, though I still flinched from the unfamiliarity of her hands on my shoulders.

'Erik, I know some of this will not make sense to you and I will try my best to explain it so you will understand.' She gave me a look of expectation, so I nodded solemnly. I never interrupted her when she was telling me something important unless I was already upset. I knew what it was to not be taken seriously or feel as though no one cares what I had to say and Christine had already experienced that far too much in her lifetime. I vowed to sit quietly and listen until she had told her tale.

She sighed again, only this time it was more of an exhale to gather thoughts. 'That night, when you made me choose between you and Raoul, I do not think either of you understood what I really wanted. Both of you were deciding for me, like I was some child. Now, I will be the first to admit that for a long time, I did act like a child because I did not know what I wanted or what to do with myself. When you first came to me as my angel, I was so lost and did not know what I wanted. You gave me something to want and I followed blindly. When Raoul stepped back into my life, he showed me a different path and that was so exciting. You had changed and lied, I was lost again. Raoul gave me the promise of a safer option for my life. I followed him out of fear of you.'

I could not help but cringe as she told me these truths. I knew I had not right to object, and I was not about to dare, but it still hurt to hear.

'When I made my choice that night, I did it out of fear, pity, and—though it pains me to admit it—a sense that I still owed you for all of the pain I put you through. You did not deserve all the hurt I caused you and I was sorry for that. But then, you let me go and none of that seemed to matter anymore. I was happy with Raoul, but I quickly discovered that he wanted things I did not. I did not know if I ever wanted to sing again after what you had done,' here she looked down, muttering that she had not sung since that night, 'but the idea of losing music entirely still hurt me. I associated music with my father and I felt that bond being severed. It hurt too much to think of letting go. I also worried for you. I wondered what had happened after we had left. Where you alive or dead? Had I doomed you to that fate? I had to know, so I went back to your house and found you nearly gone. I had not expected to feel so happy to see you alive. I realised that you were in need of me more than I needed you.'

I sat there, thinking over what she had said. There was a block in my mind that kept me from completely seeing what she meant by all of this and I boldly voiced it. 'You chose me over the Vicomte?'

Her face got stern for a moment. 'Not exactly.'

My head hung down at this. I did not require it to be happy necessarily, but my hopes had gotten high.

'Erik,' here she turned and took my hands. 'Raoul wanted things I did not and though you have asked some of me before, I know you will not force the issue. Raoul and I never had much in common beyond our childhood time together.'

'What things did he want that you could not give him?' I asked, ignoring the fact that just because Raoul was right for her did not mean that I was all that better. Despite everything, my desire for her happiness still came first.

'Marriage.'

I was shocked to hear this. She had once admitted to the Angel of Music that she dreamt of her wedding day and the handsome husband she would marry and all of the music that would fill their home together.

Seeing my utter confusion, she smiled. 'Erik, marriage in this time means that the husband gets to decide everything the wife is and can ever be. I do not want that. I wish to remain a mistress of my own actions.'

My strong, beautiful Christine. Perhaps I loved the sea as well in all of its untamed glory. No matter how many ventured across the ocean, or learned its ways, none could claim control over it.

'You wish for a partnership,' I said. I knew that husbands were meant to dictate what their wives would do, just as Christine said, but what she proposed instead was rather unusual.

'I wish for someone to love me and not control me. There are things that cannot be given to another, but must be taken for one's self.'

'Would I not make you a happy wife? I would do anything for you, Christine. I would give you anything your heart desired and more!'

'My heart desires freedom and no one to tell me to stay put when I wish to fly.'

'You think I would cage you?'

She looked at me with those sharply knowing yet sweet eyes. 'You already tried once.'

Guilt rushed through my face and I knew she saw it plainly, exposed as I was to her. Her grin remained. She had beaten me as she often did. I remained still and silent for some time, trying to wrap my head around this. For so long, I had imagined and dreamt of her as a wife, and me taking care of her. I could not let those dreams go so easily.

'I know this is a bit unusual and you probably were not expecting this at all, but this is my choice.'

I nodded slowly, though I did not fully understand. I should be jumping with joy as Christine chose me over spending time with the Vicomte. But at the same time, she was not choosing me. She was choosing herself. A third part of me was unspeakably proud of her. It was the same side of me that said I would be fine if she had become extremely famous at the Opera and travelled to different theatres or even around the world. It was a part that was the best of me that I rarely listened to but knew I should. It was the side of me that I used to hide my jealousy and bitterness.

She continued to try to catch my eye, but I did not allow it. I merely kept my gaze glued to my hands and the fabric of my trousers as I picked at it slowly. The silence continued to stretch on between us for a moment until I blurted out another question that probably should have been left in my chest. I was afraid of the damage it could do there, though.

'Do you still love him?'

She blinked, somewhat surprised by my query. I looked up to see her reaction. She seemed at a loss for words then very thoughtful. 'In some ways, yes. I did enjoy our time together, but I no longer want the things he wished to share. I suppose I never really did.'

I blinked, feeling my eyes prickle, but not letting anymore tears slip free. I had cried enough today. 'If he came here and asked you to go with him, would you go?'

Her tenderness returned to her eyes. 'Erik, I would not simply leave you.'

'But would you go with him? You are not going to be tied to me here. We will not be married and I do not know if I have the strength with which to follow. Would you go with him?'

'You are asking if I still want to be with him,' she said, looking at me with that knowing gaze again. I nodded. 'As a friend, I would not mind seeing him every now and again. But nothing more than that. He wants things I do not and he belongs in a different social circle than I do, especially now. If he came here and asked me to go somewhere with him, I probably would not go.'

I let out a breath and nodded. This had been eating at me more than I had thought. Ever since waking, I had wondered where the Vicomte had gone and when he would return to our lives. Knowing this, I felt a bit more secure. I had not realised how much I needed that safety. I did not have to worry about someone breaking down the door to take Christine away from me. With the exception of visiting to check up on us, even the Daroga seemed comfortable with the arrangement. I suspected that his comfort was at least partially from Christine's insistence. She was a force to be reckoned with and he was a smart enough man to know when to just let those be.

Finally, she offered quietly to make us some lunch and I joined her by going into the dining room to wait. She said she could not allow me to help her in the kitchen, despite my being a fairly adequate cook. I thrummed my fingers on the table as I continued to think about the sudden change of events that had taken place. I played Moonlight Sonata on the wood of the table without even realising—something my fingers did when I was nervous or especially thoughtful.

Christine had brought me to this house to live with her, but not to marry her. She wanted me here and had intended for us to be together without interruption from the Vicomte.

This all seemed so magical and too good to be true, but I still found myself questioning. She had not been overly happy in my home, try as she might have to seem so. She was not very happy with me, so why did she think this would be any different? Was she running from something? Did she need me to help her in some other way she did not wish to reveal yet? Did she still feel badly for me and was doing all of this out of some misplaced sense of pity or guilt? She had no reason to feel either of those for me. I had acted abominably to her and the Vicomte. By all sense and logic, she should be cursing my name, not making me lunch in a house she brought me into.

Perhaps I was dreaming after all.

With this thought, I tried to put aside everything else and simply enjoy the day. The queries and curiosity still came unbidden, however. I feared I would never escape them until Christine had answered them all or changed her mind about having me stay with her. She would throw me out in disgust. I could not let it be and would keep pushing and poking where she did not want me to. I knew from my own experience how that could go. Still, the thoughts would not let me be.

That night, I went to bed with a mind swirling with doubt, fear, and questions. I felt myself spiralling into the darkness of a mood that I knew would not be helped come morning. I wanted to stop existing. Perhaps if I faded away, I would not be such a burden to Christine and she could finally have true happiness. I had thought this before when considering my death and had be wrong, though. That reasoning did not make it far in my head, however, and I simply kept falling down into my own hideous soul.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I regret to inform you all that this may be my last chapter for a little while. Since publishing this, I have gotten myself into the All Souls trilogy and that seems to be all my brain wants to think about. I apologise for this and my lack of dedication. I do have a chapter 7 waiting for my editing, but I cannot guarantee when I will get to it. I am truly sorry and hope to be back to this story soon so that I can do it and you all justice. Please enjoy this chapter and know that I do feel badly for leaving everything this way. I promise to come back when I can.**

Chapter 6

Thunder rumbled the house a bit and I could hear the waves lashing at the shore. The rain pelted the windows and the sky was a dusky dark grey. I used to love days like this in my youth. They allowed me to sneak about my home without my mother noticing. I had been scared by them some when I was in the fair, but had grown to love them again in Persia. I had seen in my travels a lightning storm across a desert. There was no rain and it took a while to hear the thunder, but I could see each bolt clearly cut across the sky.

Looking out at the runny world beyond my rain covered window, I felt only misery and tiny bit of that fear. It was not as thrilling this time. I had a good roof over my head, but I had not been able to watch a storm for some time. Generally I was in the walls of the Opera or beneath it in my home. Once, in a state of misery not too far from the one I was in now, I had stood on the edge of the roof and watched the rain make the lamplights of Paris run like over saturated watercolours.

Saying that I was miserable was a bit of a lie. That would require feeling. Rather, I had so many I did not know what to do with them all. They overloaded my mind and I gave up trying to make sense of them. So, instead of getting dressed and giving Christine the friendliness she deserved and gave me, I instead stayed curled up in bed with no intention or drive to get out of it.

I watched the rain, listening to it, and wondering if it could melt me away. I would like to just wash down a drain. I almost laughed, realising I would be right back to where I started beneath the earth on a lake. The joke soon wore off as I remembered how pathetic that was. I wanted to crawl back beneath the earth and just pretend I did not exist. I had not truly done anything with my life down there, anyway. I had simply stayed out of everyone else's way, which meant I was safe and no one minded. Christine must have minded, though, as she took me away from there and plopped me in a house by the sea. At least I still had water around. Perhaps that was why it had taken me so long to hear the waves. I was used to hearing water outside my door, so hearing it here was like a clock you had lived with for so long you could not notice the ticking.

I missed the clock over my mantle. I had bought it for Christine since not knowing the time bothered her greatly. It did not bother me because life was one big clock and I did not care when it stopped. Back then I had been so indifferent. Things had changed when I realised I was in love with her and then got the ridiculous idea in my head that she could love me too. That hope was a dangerous one. I fed on it far too much. I should have known better, really. Even by bringing me out here, she did not claim to love me. She only worried about me. She thought of me as a poor, decrepit man who could not take care of himself anymore. I was just pathetic to her eyes. She was willing to put her life aside to see to mine. Though I am older than her by a healthy margin, I had not felt old until that thought. She thought of me as old, so I must be. She was too kind to ever call me that, but I knew she treated me that way. She was so sweet. If she thought me old, by everyone else's standards I must be ancient.

A faint smile crossed my lips to note that the Daroga was even older than me. I would call him prehistoric the next time I saw him. I enjoyed teasing him.

That said, I was not eager to get out of bed to do anything. I wanted to just lay here.

It was not my coffin bed, so it was a bit odd to me. I had to find just the right spot where it was not too soft and hard enough to support me. God, I thought, I really am old. This made me close my eyes and wish to disappear even more.

The drive to be loved by Christine was still ingrained in me like a bad habit. If she knew how old I was, she would never even consider it. I was nothing but some crusty corpse of a man who she was just making comfortable in his last days. I was hardly a man at all. I was a body, a thing, nearly lifeless.

Tears were threatening to slide down my face when I heard a knock at my door.

'Erik?'

There was that question again. I wondered if I did not answer to it if she would think I was dead and breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps I would die, then. All of my foolish dreaming would be put to rest as my body should be.

I kept my eyes firmly on the window, putting my back to the door when she cracked it open, peeking in with a softer, 'Erik?'

I considered holding my breath, but that seemed impossible to do. She might roll me over and find me still alive and scream. I would not scare her. I would just have to disappoint her. I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was a choking noise. Apparently I was sobbing.

In an instant she was at my side, kneeling on the floor before me. Somehow her curls looked even wilder today than they had the previous morning. Her nightgown was still on, billowing soft blue from under her white dressing gown.

'Are you hurt? What's wrong? Do you have a fever again?'

Her questions were fired quickly as her hands fluttered about my shoulders uselessly. She looked like I supposed I did when in a similar situation.

I groaned, hiding my face into my pillow. She seemed to take this as some kind of incentive as she then put her fingers to the back of my neck. A chill instantly ran up my spin, causing goose flesh to break out. I froze completely, even after her hand had departed and she had explained that I was not feverish.

'Erik, please tell me what's wrong,' she pleaded, putting her lips far too close to my ear to not feel the heat coming off them. Perhaps I was feverish after all.

I could only shake my head in response. I honestly was not entirely sure what was wrong, only knowing that there was little chance of her being able to help me. Too much was wrong and too much was right. But I could not coherently explain this to her.

'Just leave me be today, Christine.' I muttered into my pillow. I was not sure how much she heard or understood until she spoke again.

'I'm not going to leave you alone like this, Erik. It's not healthy.'

I actually laughed at that. It was a dry, humourless laugh. 'When have you ever known me to be healthy, Christine?'

When she did not reply, I glanced up at her. I had been expecting more pity but instead was faced with pursed lips and sharp eyes. She was not amused. I wanted to apologise, but could not muster it. The simple fact of the matter was that I did not care enough to do much of anything. I still wanted to waste away in bed, allowing my body to disappear into the rainy oblivion outside the window.

She must have seen some of this hopelessness, for her tone and expression softened. 'Erik, do you want to stay in bed today?'

I nodded feebly.

She looked over her shoulder at the window, noting how the sky looked more like it was before sunrise, rather than a few hours before noon. 'Well, I suppose today is not the worst of days to spend in bed. I think going to the market is going to have to wait until tomorrow.'

Fear gripped me, imagining her walking over the slicked grassy hills towards town by herself in this rain. She could fall and sprain an ankle or hit her head on some rock or get horribly sick. I clutched at her hand in this fear, not caring how surprised her expression was at my rash action. 'Please do not go out in this!' I pleaded with her, seeing all of the worst possible things happening to her beautiful form.

Her shock eventually wore off to one of tender understanding. 'I won't. I try not to go out in this kind of weather. Besides, I wanted to take you with me.'

I ignored the gripping tightness in my chest at the idea of being out in public. I simply contented myself to the fact that Christine was not going out into the storm.

'Now,' she continued, 'I am going to go get us some breakfast.'

She rose and left the room, leaving me to wonder if she did expect me to get out of bed at all. I supposed she would just have to face the disappointment when she came back in to find me unmoved from my spot. I lay there, mostly out of some misplaced spite, and watched the rain tracks run down the windows. As a child I had watched them through the boards over my windows. I would trace them with my finger and enjoy how the drops would combine to get bigger and faster before falling completely out of sight. I would start again at the very top and repeat. It passed the time.

I remembered one night not too long before I ran away, I had come downstairs without my mother knowing. She hated that I knew how to unlock my door from the inside and sneak out when she was asleep. I think she feared it like people fear the dark. In either case, I liked being free in the house at night when she could not see me to beat me. I sat in the window seat in the living room and traced the raindrops that fell. There was a gaslight on the outside of the house by the front door and that illuminated the rain like little molten gems of golden yellow.

Looking out the window in Christine's house, I felt a calm come over me. Most of my memories of my childhood were tainted by fear, and though sneaking out at night had its perils, that particular moment was one of the more peaceful ones. My mother did not find me out that night and I was able to spend a bit of time being innocent.

Christine came back in right when I was about pinpoint the exact moment my innocence was taken from me. She was holding two small plates with a muffin on each.

'I'm not hungry,' I said before I could stop myself.

She gave me a stern look, but did not force the issue. She set the plate down beside me, scooting onto the bed behind me. I rolled onto my back, resting the plate on my chest. I watched it rise and fall with my breaths, wondering indifferently if it would fall off and onto the floor.

Lightning illuminated the room and I realised Christine had not lit the lamp at my bedside. I felt strangely comforted by this fact.

'Quite the storm we have today,' she remarked. I nodded. 'Papa and I would spend days like this in front of the fire place. We would lay out pillows on the floor and would sit by the fire while he played his violin and told me old stories. I know all of the legends of the Aesir still.'

'Did you ever believe in them?' I found myself asking.

She smiled slightly, though she did not look at me. Her legs were just a few inches from my arm, which I eventually curled up to rest on my stomach. I could not fathom the idea of our skin touching at this moment. She remained on top of the covers, her dressing gown spread out a bit around her like a white shadow.

'I was raised Lutheran, though Mama Valerius was Catholic.' She was quiet for a moment. 'But yes, I did believe the stories. They were much more enthralling to a young mind than those of the Bible.'

I smirked. 'Blasphemous girl,' I muttered.

She laughed, surprising me. 'Yes, I suppose I am. I do believe in higher powers, Erik, do not mistake me. I do follow the teachings of the church and pray each night before bed and say my blessings before eating, but…'

'You are too free spirited to follow the ways of the church, Christine. You think too much for yourself. You would rather find your own path than be led by another.'

'Hmm, sometimes. There are always times where it is a comfort to know someone is looking out for you; to know that you always have someone to turn to in times of need.'

I huffed. I could not help the bitterness I felt. 'Perhaps there is help to be found for people as beautiful as you, but for wretches like me there is no help no matter how we plead or beg. I never once found safety in the thought that someone up above was letting me suffer.'

She looked at me then. Though I did not return her gaze, I could feel her eyes on me. There was confusion in them as well as pity. 'You truly believe that?'

'When you have experienced the Hells I have, you cannot help but believe there is no mercy to be found in Heaven.'

She was quiet again and I focused on the rumbling outside. The thunder was calming to me. I also listened to Christine's breathing. The gentle in and out of her breath had always enchanted me, just like everything else she did, but being this close was something of a novelty. Generally, I was not allowed this close of a proximity to her. I wondered that if I strained my ears if I could hear her heartbeat.

After a time, I felt her shiver slightly. I did not turn to look at her, but I nearly did when she started to shift and pull at the covers. She tucked her legs under the blankets beside me and I felt gooseflesh coat my body to realise her legs and mine were now only separated by a few inches. There was no fabric barrier beyond her dressing gown and nightgown. No more thick blanket to steal away some of her warmth. I could feel her skin's heat near mine and it made me shiver. I tried not to show any sign of a reaction, however. I did not wish for the moment to end.

I focused on the muffin still sitting on my chest on the blanket. I picked at it, realising it had blueberries in it. I tasted a bit and found it to be quite good, though I did not eat any more of it.

'My mother taught me how to make these. Technically they are supposed to be made with bilberries, but those are just wild blueberries.'

'Do they taste any different?'

Christine thought for a moment. 'Not really. There's this slight tartness that comes with the bilberries, but they taste about the same in the muffins.'

I nodded, feeling again like a child. Christine often did this to me, behaving like a patient mother having to explain simple things to a son. Yet, there were times when I was more the adult, needing to protect her from monsters in the dark; ignoring the fact that I was myself a monster in the dark.

'How old were you when your mother passed?'

'About six. She had pneumonia. Papa was scared I would catch it, so I was not allowed to visit her much. I was not able to say goodbye to her.'

'I'm sorry,' I said softly, realising I had crossed a line. This was none of my business and had no right to bring up such memories.

'It's all right. Did your mother ever teach you how to bake?'

I looked away as if turning from every memory I had of that dreadful woman. This did not stop them from coming, however. 'No. My mother taught me how to hide my face, fear the outside, and never expect anything to get any better.'

Christine was looking at me again and I once more could not meet her eyes. I knew there was only pity in them now and I could not bear to face that. I hated pity. It made dishonest help seem genuine.

'Erik, I'm sorry. I didn't realise—'

'It's all right. I am not mad at you,' I interrupted. I did not want to talk about this anymore and did not want to feel her looking at me the way she was. I wanted her to smile or do anything but feel bad for me. I may have been weak, but I did not want to be treated like I could not do anything at all.

We sat in quiet for a bit. I took another bite of my muffin, picking up a subtle spice to it. I recognised it from my time in Persia. 'Cardamon,' I mumbled, pinpointing the flavour.

Christine nodded. 'I try not to add too much. I don't like a lot of it, but it does add something to the flavour.'

I hummed my agreement, taking another bite. I was surprising myself with how much I was eating, not to mention how much I had slept in the past few days. I had never been one for either of these so-called human necessities. When Christine had come to stay, I did not sleep at all. I would occasionally fall off at my desk, but it would be far from the restful peace I experienced here.

Christine shifted beside me as we gazed out the window at the storm.

'I wonder how long it will last,' she mused.

I shrugged. It could last all day for all I cared. I was not getting out of bed today and the longer I had an excuse to accompany this decision, the better. I also was rather enjoying having her close to me. It was a novelty I was not eager to part with.

'Erik, would you like me to read to you?' She asked this so offhandedly that I almost did not feel a thrill at the proposition. Almost.

'If you wish.' I sounded far calmer than I felt.

She slid out of bed and my side instantly missed the heat her body put off. She was like a fire that had gone out and I was left alone in the cold darkness. I heard her shuffling about in the library of my study, humming to herself in that way she does when she is thoughtful. I had long enjoyed that idle song, no particular tune or rhythm, but just a comforting sound to pass the lonely silence with.

I slid out of bed, too. I made a quick trip to the lavatory, realising my somewhat childish determination to stay in bed was not conducive to healthy bladder movements.

I was glad when I returned to bed that Christine had not yet made a selection. That girl could stand in front of a bookshelf for two hours and not pick a single book to read. I had teased her once on this fact in my own home and she had spitefully pulled out a book and sat down to read it. I had to fight a smile with all my might as she pretended to read a book in a language I knew she could not understand. She tried for a few minutes before putting it down as though she had finished a chapter. I had to choose not to ask her about it and I noted later that the book had been replaced when I was not looking. I let her have her little victories, or at least make her think she had. It was not worth the argument and she was too adorable when she got so determined.

When she did come back in, I was relieved to see that she had picked a book she could read. I held my breath when she crawled back under the covers next to me. I did not protest much when she turned up the lamp to read by.

She read to me for a few hours at least. I could not name the book she read, but it did not matter. I was surrounded by her voice. I had missed her so. I loved her hair, her eyes, her chin, her smile, her fingers, her wrists, her legs, and every other aspect of her, but her voice won my heart every time. I could forever be enthralled by her joy, inspired by her passionate anger, entertained by her stubbornness, and torn to shreds by her sorrow, but when she spoke or—God!—when she sang I was undone completely. I had often found myself weeping in my box when she performed on stage. It was utmost beauty personified into a single voice. She was all of the notes of the piano played in one harmony together. It was Heaven's music. It was a spring breeze blown across a meadow. It was summer light sifting through the green leaves. It was an autumn crispness in the air. It was a winter night spent cozily in bed by the fire. It was everything to me.

When she finished, I woke. I had been sleeping and dreaming and living in her voice. I had dreamt of her voice. I had dozed, really, still hearing her, but not awake to anything else in the world. She had lulled me as I often had her with my own voice.

She turned to look at me. 'Erik, are you awake?'

I shifted some. I knew I was smiling blearily up at her, but I could not stop the idiotic expression from pulling at my face. 'I am, my dear. That was beautiful.'

She blushed in that modest way of hers. 'Thank you. I am glad you enjoyed it. Do you want me to go so you can rest?'

'No,' I said too firmly and quickly. My hand instinctively went out to take hers. 'No,' I repeated more softly. 'I like having you here.'

She cocked her head at me. 'Erik, do you have this happen often?'

'Have what happen?' I asked, genuinely confused.

'This,' she gestured to my whole body. 'Staying in bed all day.'

I looked down. My smile was gone and the bleariness of sleep had left me. 'Sometimes.'

'I don't recall it ever happening when I was staying in your home.'

I chuckled. 'That is because I hid it well.' I saw her continue to look perplexed and decided to relieve her of it. 'Those mornings when you would wake to find me gone. I would say I was out on errands. I was not. I was in my tunnels, having…this,' I explained, mimicking her earlier gesture to my body.

'Why did you leave?'

'I did not want you to see me like this and worry for me. Of course, that is a generous thought for myself; assuming you would care enough and not be rejoicing in my weakened state.'

'Erik,' she said with warning in her tone.

I had nothing to say to this tone. I felt my words were true. I was speaking the truth as I saw it. I could not help what experience and logic told me. To me, it was perfectly logical. I was in the right to think it nothing short of a miracle that she would care at all for my wellbeing.

'You could have told me this was happening, Erik,' she said in a softer voice.

I looked askance. 'I didn't think you would care or that you might care too much and worry.'

She shook her head. 'You contradict yourself a lot.'

This made me stop for a moment. I had been aware of this breach in logic for some time, but never gave it much thought. I wanted Christine to care about me, but I did not expect her to. Expressing that to her so that she would understand would take more energy than I felt I had, however. I just let her shake her head behind me and think me a cryptic lunatic. She would likely want me to leave within the week. She would come to her senses sooner or later.

'I'm not going to make you leave, Erik.'

I froze, wondering if I had spoken out loud without realising. I had been known to do this from time to time in my life. Christine had probably experienced it many times before. Just another part of me to make her wary.

She sighed. 'Erik, I know you are used to doing things on your own, but I want you to know that you don't have to anymore. I am here to help you if you need me.'

I felt tears brimming, but I did not let them spill over. I was tired of crying. I was tired of feeling.

'Christine,' I said, worry lacing my tone as I prepared to tell her to leave the room. What if she never came back? She might be offended and just leave me. She might never return.

She seemed to realise my plight and saved me instead. 'Erik, would you do something for me?'

I perked up instantly. 'Anything, my dear,' I offered. I did not even think twice about using my endearment for her. She smiled softly at me as I gazed up at her like the loyal dog I was.

'Would you plait my hair?'

All of the liquid in my mouth vanished upon hearing that request. Her hair, so wild and silky and beautiful, had been a source of fascination and longing for me since I had first realised I loved her. Even before that, seeing those untameable curls had made me quite curious as to their texture. How would they feel as they slid and coiled about my fingers?

I dumbly nodded, eyes still wide in awe filled surprise.

She beamed at me before sliding out of the bed.

Once more, I felt the loss of her body's heat next to mine. I knew I had no right to miss it as I had little right to have it in the first place, but I could not help longing to have her next to me always. I wanted her to warm my cool skin and make me at least halfway human. Just to have her beside me was a blessing.

She returned with a hairbrush and a course fabric ribbon. The satin ribbons I often had gifted her would slide right out of her stubborn hair, I realised. My gifts were not as useful as I had hoped, causing me some shame in perpetually giving them to her. I wanted to apologise, but she was already back on the bed, this time on top of the covers, and putting her back to me.

I sat up and looked at her hair in all of its glory. For so long I had coveted the dream of being able to touch it, and now that dream was a reality. I did not know what to do with myself. I reached out a tentative hand and gently ran my palm down the chestnut locks. They were softer than I had ever imagined.

'So beautiful,' I muttered, the words escaping me before I could stop them.

'I am thinking of getting it cut a bit—'

'No!'

My face flushed instantly at my unbridled outburst. Something about Christine made me lose the control I fought so hard for around her. I became wild at even the slightest things she said.

'I—forgive me, Christine,' I murmured shamefully.

She laughed. I nearly was undone at the idea of her laughing at me. 'It's all right, Erik. I would not cut it much, but if you like it long, then it shall remain so.'

'You needn't give up your desires for me, Christine. It is not my decision to make.'

I could see how her ears pulled back some, meaning she was smiling. 'This is why I could not marry Raoul. His life would not let me choose. It is improper for a girl to cut her hair.'

'I do not see it as improper, Christine. I merely prefer you with it longer. It is too beautiful for me to think of you losing it. But, as I say, it is your decision to make.'

She turned round, then, and put her lips to my forehead before I could think about reacting. I was so unprepared for the gesture that I did not stiffen until she had nearly pulled away entirely. She placed her hand on my cheek, running her fingers down to my jaw as she murmured, 'You are good to me, Erik.' She smiled like the sunrise as she said this.

When she turned back round, I had half a mind to demand how she expected me to plait her hair after she had done something so wonderful. She had to know that I could not think straight after such a gesture. My mind was blank and my eyes could not manage to blink. My hands remained still, one holding the brush, the other limply hanging in my lap as I sat, facing her back.

After a few moments, my hands moved without the aide of my mind. I put the brush to her hair, my other hand coming above it so as not to pull too hard at her scalp. I slid the brush through as gently as I could without snagging it. I failed partway down. My heart jumped to my throat at this problem. I did not want to hurt her. I instead started at the top again in another spot and repeated the action until it too ended in tangles. I tried once more with the same result. I stopped, not knowing what to do.

'You're so gentle. My hair isn't that delicate,' she remarked playfully.

'I don't want to hurt you.'

'Well, it'll just end in tangles if you're not more decisive.'

I bit my tongue, realising it was too late for that.

'Is it tangled?' She seemed to read my mind, and though I could detect a bit of humour in her voice, I could not voice my reply. She laughed a bit. 'Start at the ends and work them out.'

'I don't want to pull it.'

'I'll be fine,' she assured.

I did as she asked, starting at the ends and slowly managing to get the knots out of her hair. It was difficult in some parts, but I was eventually able to run the brush from the crown all the way to the tips without issue. I had to smile at my good work, knowing I had not hurt her.

'Now,' she said with a tone not too dissimilar from mine when I taught her. 'Do you know how to plait hair?'

I shook my head before I realised she could not see it. 'No.'

She showed me how she sectioned it off into three parts and wound the strands always over the middle. She explained it beautifully and I realised my stupidity for not knowing before. It was not that difficult.

Doing as she instructed, I set to work.

Oh, there was no feeling quite like having her hair slide between and around my fingers. Weaving my fingers through her locks was akin to stroking the petals on a flower. Her hair coiled about my spindly digits as though they wanted to be a part of me. We were to be joined in this way and I could think of nothing better. I wondered partway through what it would be like to burry my face in her mane, but I resisted the urge and finished the plaid. She handed me the fabric strip and I tied it into a neat bow at the end, admiring how her remaining hair corkscrewed so perfectly.

She ran her plait through her hands, likely checking my work, before smiling over her shoulder at me to thank me. I could not help but return her grin, though it looked far worse on me than it did her.

A crack of thunder interrupted us and I realised that the storm had abated while she had read to me. It was now returning and I felt a chill run through me. The weather never had much affect on my moods, but something about it coming back reminded me that my darker mood had been subdued while she was here. It was not gone, but her presence had made it fade to a more distant part of my mind.

As she set the brush on my bedside table, I laid back down. I felt the hopelessness of my life crashing down on me again. I could not even take joy in the fact that Christine was settling under the covers beside me again.

'I think I am going to sleep, Christine,' I told her in the subtlest form of dismissal I could think of.

'All right, Erik. Do you want any more of your muffin?' she asked, looking at the food I had not eaten.

I shook my head and she took it out of the room, likely setting it in the kitchen in the hopes that I would be hungry again. I seriously doubted it.

I rolled onto my side again to watch the rain on the window. It lulled me some and I could hear Christine moving about the house. She had left my door open, but I did not have the will to go close it. I assumed she would want to be able to check on me without waking me. She was considerate that way.

I closed my eyes, but I knew sleep would not come to me. My mind was in too much of a flurry cancelling itself out. I could not focus on being calm when it was busy telling me all of the things I should be feeling but was not.

Thunder rumbled through the sky and I felt it in my chest. I longed to be able to sing again and feel my own voice reverberating through my ribs into my arms. My chest voice had always been a pleasure for me. My head voice was strong as well, I knew, but the lower notes were so akin to a purr that it lulled myself. Christine had often shown how she enjoyed my singing. My voice was my one redeeming quality and I had nearly ruined it for her. I had lied to her with it. No wonder she did not love me; could never love me.

I curled myself into a ball on the bed, going through all of my past mistakes. Every terrible act I had ever committed, seeing it through Christine's fearful eyes. She would turn me away the moment she knew even half of my bloodied past. She would not let me touch her hair if she knew my hands had been responsible for so many deaths. She would not want me to sing to her if she knew how I had lured men to their deaths with it.

The dark cloud above my head kept getting darker and darker, much like the sky outside my window. I was so wrapped up in my own storm and the literal one that I did not hear the quiet snick of my door closing. It was not until I felt the bed give some behind me that I knew Christine was back in my room.

She pulled the covers back so that she could be beside me again, though in my mental state I could not see why she would want to. I laid still, not wanting to think about how warm she was at my back. I vaguely heard her beckon to me through the fog of my mind, but I could not find my voice to respond.

It startled me when I felt her hand at my back, rubbing soothing patterns into it and I realised she was trying to help me. She was humming some tune as she did this and I tried to focus on it like a drowning man clutching at a robe to pull him to safety.

I felt a whimper escape my throat and it sounded distinctly like the words, 'Don't leave me,' but I could not be sure.

In moments, I felt her warmth all but encase me. Her body was pressed to my back and her arm wrapped round my waist, placing a hand on mine. I gripped at her fingers probably harder than I should have, and let her hold me. She formed herself to me and I was surrounded by her. I could feel her breath at the back of my neck, her hand clasped in mine, her legs matching the bend in mine as best she could given our height difference.

Suddenly, the storm inside and out did not seem so frightening. The stiffness that had come over me when she had moved closer quickly melted away and I felt a peace wash into my mind. She kept humming, her chest between my shoulder blades vibrating with the sound. I could feel her head tuck itself to the back of mine as she settled in.

I had never felt such closeness and it quickly made my mind drift off to the sleep I had been hoping for.


End file.
